


Signature Bake

by Jaybeefoxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bake Off AU, Great British Bake Off - Freeform, Greg is a baker, M/M, Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction, Sherlock GBBO cross over, gbbo - Freeform, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Greg and Mycroft are both contestants on Great British Bake Off, but neither has recognised the other. After all, if they've seen each other once they've both done well, as Sherlock has done his best to keep them apart. Mycroft however is under cover, seeking the perpetrator of a theft of some sensitive drone plans. Apparently the perpetrator is none other than one of the other contestants.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 34
Kudos: 119





	1. Bakers Assemble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trillian_jdc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/gifts).



> So this was from a prompt by the lovely Johanna (trillian_jdc) who won my contribution to the Mark Gatiss Birthday Auction. Well done, darling, and I hope you like how this turns out. Okay, so some of it is a bit improbable, but then nobody is aiming for accuracy here! Purely the boys in a fun setting. So sue me if I've got anything wrong with regard to Bake Off here. I've watched enough of it, and I've based it on what I've read that they had to do with the Covid restrictions this year. The other contestants are not based on real people. I hope it works.

Greg arrived at the hotel a little nervously, excited, but also, if he was honest, shit scared. He had only gone in for this as a dare, _and now look_. He had been accepted to take part in only the most famous baking show on TV; The Great British Bake Off… He was met by a young woman who introduced herself as Maeve and checked his ID, checked him into the hotel, and showed him to his room. Like all the other contestants, this year, against the backdrop of Covid, he had been required to self-isolate for nine days and take no less than three covid tests before arrival at the hotel. Thankfully everything had proved negative. They were to be living together in a self-contained ‘bubble’ so they would be able to do without masks while filming. It was strict, they were not allowed to leave the environs of the hotel and grounds, and they were not allowed any contact with anyone outside of the cast, crew and hotel staff for the next six weeks.

“Meeting at seven,” Maeve instructed as they walked down the corridor to his room. “Down in the dining room. Cast and crew and all the contestants are needed, so we can introduce you to everyone, and outline what’s going to happen over the next few weeks…We’re in for a very intensive six week filming schedule,” she added. “Two days filming, two days off, and we’ve built practice kitchens in tents for you to use on your off days. Here we are…” She opened his door and handed him the key card. “Hope you like it. I’ve assigned Ceri to you for the duration. She’s one of the Set PAs. She’ll fetch you too and from meetings, and filming, and she’ll give you a morning wake up call. She’s an assistant , but please don’t treat her like a dogsbody.” Greg assured her that he wouldn’t do anything of the kind. “Good. See that you don’t. Ceri will be along later to fetch you to the meeting. Her contact number will be on the welcome pack that you’ll find on the table, along with mine, but contact her first if you need anything please.”

Greg moved into the room in a bit of a daze. He still couldn’t quite believe he was there. He unpacked, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe. He had taken some advice and bought several sets of the same clothing; four pairs of the same colour chinos, four polo shirts of the same colour. He had done this three times. He had three outfits, timed by four. It would save washing his things in a hotel sink. Continuity required they wear the same gear throughout the filming for each episode, which would be completed over two to three days. Greg figured he would clean his clothing from those days and let them dry for the week after. The advice had come from a mate of his who worked in television. Jake had told him to buy multiples of the same clothes which would no doubt save him time and angst in the long run. He was going to enjoy this, simply to see how far he might get. He had no illusions that he would be in the running to win. He knew he was good, just...not that good. If he could survive until the third week, he would be happy with that. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and a young woman who introduced herself as Ceri was there to guide him to the meeting.

**0000000**

“You are the best person to do this,” Alicia said, fixing Mycroft with a look. He knew that look. She was about to ruin his day (maybe his month, and come to that, perhaps his year). “Someone has to go undercover, Mycroft,” she said firmly. “We know one of the contestants has the plans, but we suspect there is going to be a handover of that sensitive information to someone in the very near future. I am afraid we don’t yet know who to or when.”

“And you want me to find out. Alicia, this is madness. I am not the kind of person who does legwork, never mind the kind who willingly subjects themselves to being in front of a camera... on national television? I _won’t_ do it. I loathe and detest leg work, as well you know. I do not want my face broadcast to the nation either.” 

“Mycroft, you need not worry. The show doesn’t go out live. We can halt proceedings and replace you once you have learned who the contact is going to be. Besides, you are perfect. Your memory is such that you should have no problem with the technical side, you simply need to learn the recipes like you would a foreign language. You have the precision for the technical side of things, and besides, you once told me you liked to bake…” 

“At home, for pleasure, and not under pressure, or in front of bloody cameras. Christ, what on earth made you suggest me?”

“Because you are currently the only one who can pull this off at such short notice, Mycroft Holmes.” Alicia had a disturbing ability to sound like his mother at times. “I can get you in, I have a contact or two, but the rest is up to you. We _need_ those plans back, Mycroft, and moreover we need to know who the contact is. We need to know who the plans are going to be handed over to, who they’re working for. Once we know that, we’ll get you out of there and replace you. They can start filming from scratch. We’ll compensate Channel 4 for the inconvenience. We can explain you broke the rules somehow.”

“Wonderful. I’m to be a pariah as well.”

“Filming is starting in two weeks. Your target is one of the other contestants, and our profilers are 99% certain it’s a man you’re looking for, but we don’t know who yet. We know he hacked into a secure server and stole plans for some stealth drones. We also know they’ve already been sold to the highest bidder.”

“How do we not know who this person is? Are you sure it’s a man?”

“He uses secure VPNs and lots of different usernames, he reroutes the messages through servers using encryptions our IT boys were wetting themselves over. He’s good, whoever he is. We do know he’s one of the contestants of Bake Off, but only because he slipped up and bragged about it on one of the forums he runs. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for our IT department, we wouldn’t have known it was his forum. They’ve been monitoring the forums for weeks, transcribing his interactions with his forum users, and we’re pretty sure it’s not a lie, he was talking about his recipes with too much confidence. There’s always a margin for error of course, but in this case....” She paused. “Let’s just say we have very good reasons to believe it’s true. There are four male contestants on the show and you’ll have to find out which one it is.” 

“They always make a mistake somewhere. Overconfidence is not uncommon.”

“We can but hope. I am afraid that in order to comply with the current conditions, you will have to self-isolate for nine days and take three covid tests. You are to be segued in as a replacement for one of the other contestants who, unfortunately for her but very opportune for us, will have retired due to a positive test for Covid19. Your backstory is simple, you are a retired civil servant who has a brother with a young child, you wanted to be able to make the child treats and got into baking to enable you to do so, and also to help your brother and his partner. I have some insider info on what you need to learn, and you have nine days to practice. Anything you require will be delivered to your door, just text Anthea.” Alicia seemed very pleased with herself. “It’s a good job Pru and I went to the Sorbonne together,” she added. “She’s an absolute darling. She’s in on this, knows you are not... _legitimate_ , for want of a better description, and she let me have an idea of what to expect from the competition, of what you will need to learn. Although she doesn’t know the fine details. No one else knows about this, apart from one of the Producers, Peter Braden. He’s not happy but he can’t do anything about it. National Security, after all. Paul Hollywood doesn’t know, and not even the director has a clue…. Now,” she said, opening a draw and extracting a large manilla envelope, “here is all the information you need…” She handed the envelope to him and stood back. “Good luck. Just resolve this in the next fortnight, and _don’t_ take risks. For Heaven’s sake, don’t win.”

**0000000**

Greg sat near the front of the large conference room, having been guided there by one of the crew, listening to the introductions and to the director as she gave them the lowdown on the plans for the filming. There were 120 production staff, plus all the hotel staff, living, as the Director referred to it, in a ‘self-contained biosphere’ so they would be able to dispense with normal covid rules. It meant they could hug and shake hands, breach the two meter rule, and generally keep the spirit of the old bake-off for the viewers. Nobody was to leave unless they were voted off the program. They could have no physical contact with the outside world, although wi-fi was free and they could contact friends and family within reason (as long as they didn’t break contractual rules) via Skype or Zoom, but beyond that, for the next six weeks, throughout July and into August, they were to be isolated and effectively still quarantined. Greg wasn’t looking forward to that bit, despite having only a small circle of friends and family. Being somewhere where you knew nobody was always awkward, although he wasn’t reticent in getting to know people.

The filming format was discussed, an intensive six weeks, two days filming, two days off, but that had also been in the countless emails Greg had received over the last months, following the contract and nondisclosure agreements he had needed to sign. Nobody was allowed to talk about any of this to anyone, they were not allowed to post on social media, nor were they allowed to tell their families much. Once the director was done, it was Pru and Paul’s turn to introduce themselves, followed by Matt Lucas and Noel Fielding. Then they were let loose on each other, to socialise and get to know one another a little. Being late to bed wasn’t encouraged, and neither was drinking alcohol, or at least not too much of it, and everyone had been advised that filming began early and finished late, so they shouldn’t risk staying up too late on their first night. 

“Always seems like a bit of a hoohah,” said a voice beside him, and Greg turned to see Noel grinning at him. “It’s really not as bad as it sounds,” he said. “You’re Greg, aren’t you?” he offered a hand. Greg shook it, a little bemused. 

“Er...yeah, Greg Lestrade.”

“What do you do, Greg? I’m sorry but there’s always too much info about everyone to learn it all…Besides, I like chatting to people, you know? Finding out from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

Greg chuckled. “Horse’s mouth, hm? Well, I’m...I _was_ a copper. Detective Chief Inspector, London Met. Took early retirement last year.”

“Oh, wow.” Noel looked impressed. “You must have some stories.”

“A few, yeah.” Greg grinned. 

Noel gave him an arch look. “More than a few people have noticed your resemblance to our lovely silver fox judge over there…”

Greg glanced up to see Paul Hollywood surrounded by some of the female entrants a few yards away. He grinned. “Yeah, it’s been said. It was a bit of a joke with my mates, and that’s why I’m here. It was a dare really, and now look.”

Noel grinned, enjoying the joke. “Welcome to the madhouse, Greg. Gotta go and mingle,” he said, apologetically. “Nice to meet you, though. We can catch up again later. I need to hear some of those stories.”

Mycroft looked about him warily. He was choosing to play a side of himself that he wasn’t used to showing; the quiet, self-contained, reticent side. He was...well, his own brother wouldn’t recognise him. He was softly spoken, guarded, slightly timid. He knew his role would develop as he began to interact with people, but the bare bones of it was a person without much physical grace, lacking the mantle of power he normally exuded, and somewhat soft around the edges. He had chosen to ditch his normal three piece, in favour of an innocuous and therefore forgettable pale-blue polo shirt and sand-cloured chinos. 

Watching the others get to know each other, he spotted Paul Hollywood who had almost immediately been swamped by the admiring participants, and a few of the crew, and Pru was suitably engaged with some of the others from the ten-strong field of contestants. Mycroft realised he was in trouble. Hollywood was a silverfox and Mycroft had a weakness for that particular kind of man. He had admired the tv baker for a while. 

“Hi, you okay there?” Mycroft glanced up and into a pair of dark brown eyes that immediately captivated his attention. _Oh, God…_ There was apparently more than one silverfox to catch the eye. “Greg. Lestrade,” the man offered, along with a hand to shake. “Contestant,” he qualified, as Mycroft grasped the warm hand gently, and shook it. It wasn’t a strong handclasp, nor was it limp, just not as strong as his usual one would have been. 

“Mike Hunter,” he lied, pleasantly. “Also a contestant, for my sins.” _Doubly in trouble,_ he thought, looking the man over. _Must not let attraction cloud judgement._ He had no idea who his target was yet. “I must say, there is a veritable surfeit of silver foxes in the room this evening.” Normally Mycroft knew he would not have dared to be so forward, but somehow...this version of himself felt different. He might be quiet, softly spoken, but he still had his wit.

Greg chuckled. “Noel kinda pointed out the same thing. Not sure the tent will be big enough for the both of us.”

“I dare say Mr Hollywood will survive,” Mycroft replied. “Also, dare I say it, I would be surprised if you didn’t garner yourself a bit of a following too, before this shindig is over.”

“Me? Nah, I’m just ordinary.” Greg dismissed the possibility as impossible. “Probably won’t last beyond week two. So, what do you do, Mike?” he asked, changing the subject. “You’re a contestant too, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. I’m retired. Civil Servant, nothing important really. Never rose really high in the Service.”

“Got bitten by the baking bug then?”

“I have a younger brother, and he acquired a partner a year or so ago, with a young child. I wanted to be able to make treats for her when I babysit, which is often, to do the family thing really, and here we are.”

“Uncle Mike spoiling her?”

“Definitely.” Mycroft smiled, settling into the role. “Yourself?”

“Oh, I’m ex-police, retired too.” _That was interesting, but did not rule the man out as the culprit. “_ Took a rather generous retirement package early last year. Figured I would go while the going was good while I could still enjoy life.”

“Is this what you call enjoying life?”

Greg grinned widely. “Not so sure, now you mention it. Bloody Hell, haven’t seen so much paperwork since I was a DCI…”

Mycroft allowed his eyebrows to rise. “A respectable rank to achieve.” _How good were you with IT?_

“Yeah, well, I enjoyed the detective work really. DCI meant I was a bit above that. It was all policy meetings and paperwork. I didn’t enjoy it much, truth to tell. Not what I signed up for.” 

“And this is?” Mycroft smiled, gently amused. It drew a laugh from the man. 

“Not exactly, no. I’m not in this to win, really. I’ll enjoy it for however long it lasts, but I don’t have any expectations.”

“That’s good. I wish you luck then.”

**0000000**

Day one was an interesting start. Greg woke to his alarm, and then again, five minutes later, when there came a knock on the door; his wake up call. “Five am, Mr Lestrade,” came Ceri’s call. Greg groaned and rolled over, calling a belated acknowledgement. This was the bit he wasn’t going to be able to get used to easily. The very early start. Although he’d been used to it at work, he’d been retired seven months and he was out of practice. Being awake at five am and breakfasting by five thirty, dressed and in the tent for seven wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. 

The weather was warm and the tent was stifling, and they spent a short while familiarizing themselves with the location of everything they would need. The signature bake that they began with—a cake that had an emotional connection for them—was easy for Greg. His French grandmère had been a big influence on his baking after all; she had taught him all he knew really, and it was easy to recall her recipes for the things he loved. He had decided on a Fraisier, a strawberry cake with sponges and cream, perfect for summer. As the day wore on, Greg laughed and joked with everyone, telling Mat and Noel the endearing story of little Gregoire, as she called him, mixing batter in his Nan’s kitchen, a good sound bite for the cameras.

“Greg…” Paul Hollywood was standing at the end of his work table, and Greg was weighing ingredients. “So…” There was a pause, and the two men looked at each other. It was the first time they had really interacted and Pru, Mat and Noel were all hovering nearby, eyes dancing, smiles of anticipation fixed in place. The camera was also nearby, the Director hovering in the background. Without missing a beat Mat turned to a nearby camera and in a terrible ad libbed impression of Sir David Attenborough, said, “and here we see these two silverback alpha males in their natural habitat, circling each other, testing each other’s strengths and weaknesses...A truly breathtaking confrontation…Is the tent big enough for both of them, or will this battle for territory end in tragedy?” 

It was no good, Greg and Noel both cracked up laughing, and Paul had a look of wry amusement. “So, Greg,” he said, aiming for professionalism, “ _is_ this tent big enough for both of us?”

“You’re the expert,” Greg said with a smile, tipping flour into a bowl. “I’ve never been in this tent before.” Noel laughed again and clapped him on the back. 

“So, what are you baking for us?” Paul asked, smiling, and the conversation, and any tension in the room, evaporated as Greg explained his Fraisier to the judges. 

**0000000**

Greg took to watching the other bakers as they set to with their recipes, as well as when they were on breaks, noting the different personalities in the room with his policeman’s eye for character and personal detail. There was Mycroft, tall and lean, positioned at the bench immediately in front of him, so that Greg couldn’t exactly miss him. He was dressed impeccably, even if he was in ordinary clothes; chinos and a polo shirt, like himself, although in paler colours. He tied his apron neatly, but his short sleeves showed off freckled forearms with soft ginger hairs that Greg couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to stroke his hand down. His arse in those trousers… Mycroft’s concentrated focus was also mesmerizing. He was precise in everything he did, movements designed not to waste energy or time. 

April Drake, a teacher from Lincoln, was blousy, frilly, and kind, her wild brown curls tamed with a bright ribbon, her apron almost immediately askew over her fifties-inspired dress, her manner eccentric and energetic. She reminded Greg of a Spring gale. April indeed. However, her baking was good, and her attention to detail was noticeable. The judges noticed it too. Greg liked her and hoped she was at least in the running to last a few episodes. 

Janine Hawkins, a blogger/influencer from Dublin, was also, in Greg’s opinion, one to watch. She reminded him of Nigella Lawson, dark hair in waves down her back, dark eyes that flashed with an intensity that Greg found interesting. She was ambitious, gorgeous, and inventive, but her adventurous baking wasn’t an immediate hit with the judges. Her flavours were inspired but her execution left something to be desired, and although her technical challenge lacked the precision needed, her signature bake, a moist fruit cake, was good. 

Nathaniel ‘Nat’ Ibbotsen, an IT consultant from London, proved to be an excellent baker, his technical challenges were amazingly accurate, but he lacked a bit of imagination. He was a blond, blue-eyed thirty-something with a career in IT now branched off into 3D mapping for CGI. The details were lost on Greg almost immediately. Computing wasn’t his strong point, despite finding his way around the digitised records he was used to using during his career in a semi-competent manner. If anything had gone wrong he had always needed the IT techs to sort it. 

Adele Fisher, the hairdresser from Bolton, was funny, bubbly and immediately likeable, cuddly and pretty with an immediate happiness that was infectious. Greg hoped she would not be leaving soon either. Between her and April, Greg wasn’t sure which of them he liked more. Her baking wasn’t spectacular, but it was good. She was competent during the technical and it became apparent that she knew her stuff. She was a mum of three, and baked for the whole family, and her extended family, which was apparently quite large. It was obvious from the get go that the judges liked her, and so did everybody else.

Seb Moran, ex-soldier turned personal trainer, was the curiosity. Taciturn, tall and dark, he was rakishly handsome with a hint of danger. It was immediately apparent that Paul and Pru both didn’t have any clue how to deal with him. He was however, unmistakably brilliant. Baking was therapy for him, apparently, having suffered PTSD after his service in Afghanistan. He was thinking of going into it professionally. While not being comfortable to be around, Seb was also plain speaking, what you saw was what you got. He kept himself to himself while they were filming, and nobody saw him much while they were at the hotel. 

Bonny Wintringham, tour guide and charity worker, looked like she might fall at the first hurdle. Her signature bake lacked taste and texture, and Pru was quick to pick her up on it. While her technical challenge wasn’t the worst, it seemed plain that the judges were not impressed. Greg judged she would have to work hard to get through. 

Richard Brook, professional illustrator, and Mavis Forester, housewife and mum, the final two of the ten, were also struggling, Greg noted. Mavis was good at the technical, but her signature wasn’t brilliant and neither was Richard’s. Mavis was comfortable and motherly, but Rich was edgy and anxious and in truth a bit of a Diva, but the Director loved that and the cameras were all over him. It was also obvious that Rich was rather taken with Seb. At the end of filming, Greg wasn’t sure who would be going home. 

**0000000**

Greg collapsed into bed that first night exhausted. They had filmed a thirteen hour day, and they’d knocked off around 8pm. He’d been awake for sixteen hours, been interviewed at least eight times throughout the day, every kind of response and emotion captured for the viewers. Greg noticed that the judges kept their distance, not interacting much with the contestants. They were judges, so Greg supposed it wasn’t unusual. Favouritism was to be avoided, after all. He fell asleep wondering how Mike was coping with it all. He hadn’t seen much of the man, despite their workbenches being close. It was easy to watch him at work and Greg had needed to pull his own concentration back a few times. He idly wondered how much of a chance with the man he might stand, were he to suggest anything? _Keep it for later,_ he thought. They were competing against each other, so he might not want to be too friendly. Besides, liaisons between contestants were frowned upon. It muddied the competition waters. 

Greg woke to the alarm on the Sunday morning, and then, five minutes later, a knock on the door; his wake up call. 

“Five am, Mr Lestrade,” came Ceri’s usual call. 

“Yeah, thanks. I’m awake…” He pitied her. She had to get up earlier than he did in order to go around knocking on the contestants’ doors. He tipped himself out of bed with a groan, and went for a shower. Peering blearily into the mirror, he was struck at how knackered he looked, after only one day’s filming. _Thank God tomorrow was their day off._

The breakfast room was quiet, although the bubbly April was cracking jokes with the hotel staff. She never seemed to run out of energy. Mycroft sat in the window, eating his cereal in something of a daze. He was exhausted. 

“Mind if I join you?” Mycroft looked up to see Greg, looking somewhat dazed himself.

“Please, be my guest. You look...a little worn.”

Greg laughed. “Only a little?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “Come on, Mike, I know I look like shite. Make up won’t be happy with me,” he muttered, but he was smiling as he spoke. 

“That is what they are there for, after all,” Mycroft assured. “To make us look our best. However, such long days…”

“Tomorrow, I’m having a lie in, and then I’m going to practice, practice, practice,” Greg admitted. They both watched Janine enter, cool as cucumber, walking to the breakfast bar and acquiring toast and cereal. “What do you think of her chances?” Greg asked.

“Who? Oh, the irish one?”

“Mm.” 

“She looks right. She’d fit the bill as a winner. She’s a bit haphazard but she knows her stuff really. My favourite, however, would be the lovely Adele, despite her appearance, she’s a dark horse.” 

“How so?”

“She’s clued up on the technical stuff, and she’s creative. I think we haven’t seen her best yet.” They fell companionably into discussing their fellow contestants’ chances and Mycroft finished his breakfast even more curious about the ex-policeman. The man was friendly, perhaps even a bit interested in him, which gave Mycroft pause. _That was...unexpected._

**0000000**

After the first two days filming, the results were mixed. Mycroft’s technical challenge was perfect, but narrowly beaten by Janine, who scored highest. Paul hadn’t been impressed with Mycroft’s signature however. Apparently Mycroft’s sponge had lacked the proper texture, and was a bit dry. In his inimitable way, Hollywood was quite scathing. Incredibly, Greg had found himself with high marks for his Fraisier. Nat’s flavours had proved to be good, as was the texture of his cakes, and the judges overall seemed impressed with him. April’s signature was good but her technical was average, and most of them seemed to level out without anyone really standing out. Once the first two days were over, everyone seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief and everybody seemed eager to practice over the next two days. 

The next two days of filming contained their fair share of drama. Rich burned one of his cakes having set the oven too high, and surprisingly Seb stepped in to help him. Adele was in tears after her showstopper collapsed. Ice cream melted, buns collapsed, and everybody was surprised when Mavis ended up the Star Baker, including Mavis. They also had their first elimination. Bonny’s showstopper wouldn’t have stopped any shows that Greg could imagine. It wasn’t a hard task to eliminate her, because her technical challenge had been lacklustre as well, and despite Greg feeling a pang of disappointment for her, he was also vaguely surprised that he had made it through.

The drama didn’t stop there. One evening, Greg saw Mike leave the restaurant, and disappear down one of the corridors leading to the back of the hotel. It wasn’t an area for guests, and he wondered— _with my suspicious policeman’s brain,_ he thought, sourly—what Mike was doing heading down there. Nobody else was around, but it had looked suspiciously as though he was deliberately ignoring Greg. Mike had to have seen him entering the restaurant as he was crossing the atrium but he said nothing, no word of greeting, not even a wave. Frowning, Greg tried to throw off the thoughts, though. He wasn’t on bloody duty any more and anyhow it was probably innocent. Mike might be looking for some fresh air. The summer weather was hot and the hotel air con was struggling. He went into dinner, Adele hailing him as he arrived, and put the thoughts to the back of his mind.

Greg’s next two days off were spent practicing, and he saw very little of Mike. Greg concentrated on practicing his signature bake, and toyed with ideas for his showstopper, and by now everyone was testing their bakes on everyone else including the crew and the hotel staff, much to their delight. Dinner was now accompanied by desserts made by the contestants. Nothing was wasted.

 _Mike.._.Greg’s thought kept returning to the man. He was puzzled about Mike. The man was attractive, quiet, humble of his talents and quite creative in his own way, but he didn’t endear himself to the judges. He also looked distracted most of the time he was off camera, and seemed to be vague when he was practicing, his attention elsewhere. For someone so focused when they were working, it was odd. He didn’t seem to practice much either. Greg had seen him in the kitchens only twice on their days off, while he had seen the others in there almost constantly. Greg had the strangest feeling he’d seen the man before somewhere. His profile was familiar, and that bothered him for some reason. Also, Mike seemed to be where he shouldn’t be; disappearing down corridors not meant for anybody but the staff. Greg’s policeman’s senses were prickling, his brain was working overtime and he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He needed more information, but from where?

For Mycroft, the first few days passed slowly and frustratingly. He was no nearer to deducing who his target was although he was fairly certain it was either Moran or Ibbotsen. The raft of information from Alicia that he had perused at some length before arriving had proved interesting but inconclusive. The background checks done on the four men had given him something to work on but were by no means comprehensive. 

Gregory Lestrade, ex-Detective Chief Inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London, had retired nearly eight months ago. The man had a respectable bank balance, and no prior indication of wrong-doing, an exemplary record, and in Mycroft’s experience, he didn’t seem to be the type to betray his country. Although, Mycroft considered it very unlikely for a copper not to have built up a certain database of informants, and plenty of contacts in the criminal classes.

Sebastian Moran was more of an enigma, a reclusive ex-SAS man with a chequered past, several high security missions under his belt and a bad case of PTSD. He had been all over the world, and had probably had time to amass his own list of contacts in nefarious occupations. He was in therapy but not considered a threat to anyone. Apparently baking was all part of his therapy, to go by his doctors. He was an expert in explosives, engineering and communications, and skills like that lent themselves well to the crime in question.

Richard Brook, children’s book illustrator, was struggling financially, but he wasn’t cut out for such a crime. He had no potential contacts for this kind of thing, no indication of being given to criminal behaviour, although he was computer savvy, he used photo manipulation and digital imaging software. He also had a social media presence and blog pages, and was the one to update them regularly.

Nathaniel Ibbotsen was the prime target; an IT tech of many years, he had spent three years in the US completing a degree in Computer Coding from MIT, and then, back in the UK, he had acquired an MSc from Manchester, and then a post grad from UCL in CGI. _So many abbreviations_. Mycroft sighed, wondering if he could manage the mission in the timeframe. He needed more data. 

Mycroft checked in with Alicia regularly and they shared intel on his progress, which wasn’t great, in his opinion. He found the filming tedious, the people dull, and complained every chance he got. Greg was the only one who was remotely interesting to Mycroft, and he found himself curious as to where he had come across the silver-haired ex-policeman before. Something was familiar about the man, but he could not place it and given the current mission, he was more than interested to find out, and find out soon. He disliked loose ends. 

“I need more intel on Gregory Lestrade, Ibbotsen, and Moran. I’m fairly sure Brook is not involved, despite his knowledge of computers, but you can see if you can get more on him as well if you will.”

“What more do you need to know?”

“I need to know as much as you can give me. Seriously, any one of them could be the target, although right now I’m leaning toward either Ibbotsen or Moran. Lestrade is...I know him from somewhere, and it is annoying me because I cannot for the life of me remember from where. I do not like loose ends like this, not on a mission this important. I know I’ve seen him before…”

“I shall try to look deeper, but honestly, Mycroft, we have given you as much as we could in the first place. If there is anything else, you’ll probably need to find it for yourself.” 

Mycroft signed off feeling deeply frustrated. All this to handle and he had to keep it together in the studio as well. _Ah well, they don’t call me Antarctica for nothing. I can handle this..._

**0000000**

“Dave?” DCI Dave Bradstreet grinned over the Skype screen at his mate’s eager face.

“How are you doing, Gregsy? Burned your French fancies yet?”

“Fuck off! It’s your fault I’m here.” Dave broke into laughter. 

“Feeling under pressure, are we?” he asked, grinning. 

“I told you to fuck off, mate. Now fuck off some more. Listen, can you do me a favour?”

“Not when you tell me to Fuck Off. What do you want?”

“Something funny’s going on here, or I’m not an ex-copper.”

“How do you mean?”

“Can you look up someone for me, a man called Mike Hunter. I reckon he's in his mid-forties, six foot tall, auburn hair, blue eyes, and he's ex-Civil Service. He’s an odd bod and I’m not sure that he’s not up to something.”

“You’re too bloody suspicious, Mate. You getting paranoid or is this your way of ousting the opposition?” It was Greg’s turn to grin. “ So what’s your problem with him? Has he stolen your stollen recipe?”

“Okay, okay, lay off, will you? Look, I wouldn’t be bothered but I know I’ve seen him somewhere before and it’s bugging me. I cannot remember where from. Just...I dunno, wanted to check he’s not got any previous, that’s all.” 

“Okay, I’ll give it a go. Seeing as it’s you. How’s it going anyway?”

“It’s...actually not too bad, but the schedule is punishing. Two days filming, two days off, thirteen hour days and up at five. Honestly, I thought I’d left that behind.”

“You never were one to like being in front of cameras, Greg. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Me and the lads can't wait to see you make an arse of yourself. The other half is giving me funny looks though. I've been known to complain when she wants to watch it. Okay then, so when did you need this info anyway?”

“As soon as, mate. Ta.”

Greg came away from the call wondering what he was doing. He was seeing conspiracy behind every door. He sighed, and went to bed, wondering what Dave was likely to find. 

As the third few days of filming came along, Greg wondered what would happen. All his senses were telling him something was off. He shook himself. What could happen, after all? He had to focus on his work or he knew he wouldn’t be in the competition much longer. 

Mycroft knew something was wrong. All his senses were telling him one of them was about to make their move. He sensed that Greg was interested in him, but perhaps for the wrong reasons. The man was a policeman, for goodness’ sake. If anybody would be likely to rumble that something was going on, then he would. Mycroft knew pretty well that he had another couple of days grace, because everyone was pretty much caught up in filming and they were all together, but he would have to be watchful when their next two days off came around. He bent his mind to his next signature bake, brownies, and shut out the clamouring of his mind to solve the problem. He needed to focus. 


	2. Cloak And Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get dangerous, Greg is BAMF, and truths are revealed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the next chapter. I sincerely hope it works. It's a teeny bit on the crack side, imho, but that's maybe just me. You may notice there is more to come. I can't stick to word counts to save my life...

They had lost their third baker. Richard Brook was gone. His signature failed, his custard didn’t set, and his technical—a quiche—didn’t bake well and the pastry was soggy. When his showstopper icing melted in the heat, everybody knew it was just about inevitable. When Paul announced that the baker going home would be Richard, the blow was still hard, and Rich was upset, but Seb engulfed him in a hug and murmured in his ear about not losing touch and he would see him at the final party. _Looks like those two might be heading somewhere good,_ Greg thought. He really hoped so. He found himself happy for them, even if he was gutted for Richard, who had been so optimistic throughout the first few days. 

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief beside him. Richard was low on his list of potential suspects, after all. Greg caught his eye after Richard’s departure. “Inevitable, I’m afraid,” Mycroft murmured, anticipating Greg’s regret. He had been getting to know the ex-policeman more and more as the days passed and continued to like what he learned. The man cared about people.

“Yeah, but...it’s still hard,” Greg admitted. “Adele last time, and now Richard. Let’s face it, nobody expected we’d lose her.” Adele had been the surprise from their second bout of filming. Nothing had gone right for her. Her ice cream had melted and her pastry was too hard. The summer heat and the constraints of time had conspired to make life hard for them all. 

“All part of the show.” Mycroft was pragmatic about it. “After all, you knew this was necessary. There has to be a winner.”

“True. Let’s face it, if I last much longer, I’ll be very surprised.”

“Based upon your current performance, I’d say you’re doing very well. Better than Mavis. Your showstopper was excellent.” 

“Yeah, but...dunno if I can keep up with the others.”

Mycroft smiled. Greg was kind, not just honest, jumping to help his fellow contestants more than once. Mycroft considered himself an excellent judge of people, and his observations led him to believe that the man was completely genuine. In any other circumstance, he would have enjoyed pursuing a relationship with him. Greg definitely seemed attracted to ‘Mike’ and the policeman was definitely Mycroft’s _type,_ if he had a type. Greg seemed to gravitate to Mycroft’s orbit every morning, sitting with him at breakfast, seeking him out after filming, even if it were just to discuss the day. He joined him in the practice kitchen, although Mycroft did not feel the need to practice much. Greg was always polite, always asked if he didn’t mind the company. Mycroft found himself unable to refuse.

Although he was still awaiting anything else that Alicia’s researchers could dig up, Mycroft was sure in his gut that Ibbotsen was the most likely suspect. It was all taking time he didn’t have. Mycroft had spotted Ibbotsen making his way more than once around the outskirts of the lawns at the perimeter of the property, as if scouting the lie of the land. He kept a weather eye on the man but he never seemed to disappear, always remaining in sight of the hotel. Mycroft wanted to access the man’s room, and he started to time him on his walks, realising he always took about twenty minutes before returning inside. If he could catch him on the way out, Mycroft might have time to access the room before he returned. The only problem was the man didn't have a routine; he always went out at different times, Mycroft suspected deliberately. 

Greg spent all his time trying not to get a crush on Mike, considering the man ticked all of Greg’s boxes when it came to what attracted him about a potential partner. He was tall, slim, blue eyed and auburn haired, and just _nice; pleasant nature, good humoured, self effacing…_ Greg had to keep reminding himself that they were rivals, competitors, but that didn’t seem to matter somehow. He was still puzzled over Mike’s behaviour, but Greg found himself gravitating toward the man at breakfast and sitting with him at lunch. Mike didn’t discourage him, seeming to enjoy his company too, so Greg chose not to broach his concerns with him. He was reluctant to ruin their fledgling friendship over something that might prove to be entirely innocent. _After all,_ he thought, watching Mike over the dinner table one evening, _I never expected to get a friend out of this._ Mike even seemed to be attracted to him, if his responses to Greg were anything to go by. It all added to Greg’s puzzlement as to what to do about it. 

Reviewing his current assessment, Mycroft was sure neither Lestrade nor Moran fit the profile and opted to focus on Ibbotsen, but it was proving difficult. For one thing it was difficult to be discreet. Moving about the hotel without being observed was well nigh impossible. The set-up was different from previous bake-offs in that everyone was living together full-time in their ‘bubble’, to enable the whole production to be Covid-free. As a result, living cheek by jowl with cast, crew and hotel staff gave Mycroft little or no privacy outside of his room. Several times Mycroft had to abandon plans to try to access Ibbotsen’s room simply because he was waylaid by all and sundry on the way. On filming days they were working most of the day, there was no chance to do anything else. On their days off, most people were practicing their bakes but the production crew was working overtime to make sure everybody was entertained. 

It didn’t help that Greg was a sociable sort who made friends with everybody, and insisted on dragging Mycroft along with him to these entertainments. The production crew arranged football matches, quizzes, and bingo nights, and it looked very much like Greg was a fan of _everything_. Mycroft grudgingly admitted that it allowed him to observe his suspects more closely, because they all took part, but aside from that, he had no interest in kicking a ball about in the summer heat, or inanely amassing numbers on a board for no good reason. 

“But you’ve _got_ to come,” Greg said, after inviting him to a quiz night hosted by Mat Lucas. 

“ _Got to?_ You make it sound as though I shall suffer some horrible fate if I do not attend.”

“But it’s a quiz night hosted by a Doctor Who companion…”

“Greg...the man is an actor, an ordinary person…”

Greg looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “Mike, the likelihood is that I... _we..._ won’t get to do this again. Opportunities like this do not grow on trees. This is an amazing experience. I just think we should throw ourselves into _all of it._ Enjoy it for as long as it lasts. Look, anything can happen, and tomorrow it might be _my_ icing melting or _my_ pastry going soggy and _I_ might be the one going home, so I just want to enjoy it all while I can. That’s all...and I’d rather like to enjoy it with you, if you don’t mind...” 

_Is he flirting with me?_ Mycroft sighed, a little regretfully. “Put that way, I can see your point, however…” He paused, assessing his companion, “I am sorry, Greg, but I hardly think that I will expire on the spot if I don’t take part.” “No, but I _might_...I might pine away for the lack of your amazing company.” 

Mycroft snorted. “I rather think the sun has got to you,” he said, smirking. “While I am flattered that you enjoy my company, I very much doubt you will miss me _that_ much.”

“Oh, don’t bet your life on that...besides, I heard Paul is going, and you seem to be _very_ taken with him…” 

“Change the subject, now,” Mycroft protested, scandalised. “Alright, I’ll go to your blasted quiz night, if for no other reason than to get you to shut up about it. Satisfied?” Greg had given him a blinding grin and sauntered away, jauntily.

“See you at seven, Mike,” he said, with a wave. 

**0000000**

“Please tell me you have something for me, Alicia?” Mycroft sat back in front of his computer, the evening before their next day off. He was anticipating a move being made and needed to be ready for it. Ibbotsen had been texting quite prolifically, and Mycroft still hadn’t found the opportunity to access the man’s room.

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” Alicia said, apologetically. “I did say our researchers had given you everything…”

“There’s always something someone misses. So, what have you found?”

“I think I can lay your concerns to rest about Lestrade,” she said. “Because I think I have solved where you might have seen your policeman before. The man has an exemplary record, so I am reluctant to think that he’s the one.”

“As am I. He’s very genuine. He _cares_.” 

“It also looks like he’s connected to your brother…”

“What on earth has Sherlock to do with any of this?” “Lestrade was the man your brother worked with.”

“My brother has worked with lots of people.”

“Yes, but the reason why he has worked with a lot of people is that one of them had to rescue him in the first place, and that person was Lestrade. One of our researchers managed to track down his sergeant, a woman by the name of Sally Donovan. She’s an Inspector herself now. She was _very loyal_ to Lestrade. She apparently dislikes your brother intensely. It isn’t the first time that Lestrade seems to have inspired great loyalty in his subordinates,” Alicia added. “I would be very surprised to find he was your target, Mycroft.”

“As would I. I had no idea he was the one Sherlock spoke of when he told me that someone from the Met had finally listened to him. I remember expressing surprise, and then he told me that the man in question had driven a hard bargain. That bargain was to get himself clean and only then would he be given a chance at working on cases.” Mycroft smiled. “Obviously a strong personality. Sherlock was very careful to keep the man’s anonymity though. I never quite knew why, although I suspected. I think he was under the impression that I might scare him off. I dare say I could have found out, but I was too astonished at how well things turned out for my brother. I decided to leave well alone.”

“Well, Lestrade is your man there. A mystery solved perhaps?”

“Perhaps. At least now I recall where I may have seen him before. Across a crowded crime scene in 2009, I believe. I just hope he doesn’t remember me. So,” Mycroft fixed her with a look. “What about Moran?”

“He was on some very sensitive missions during his SAS service, and I did manage to get access to some of the records, despite some having a suppression notice on them lasting 100 years.” 

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Indicative of some extremely sensitive operations.”

“Some were protecting the Royals,” Alicia explained. “Some were dismantling anti-terror cells. He did some work overseas. He definitely has the contacts but not the motive, and perhaps not the hacking skills we are looking for. He would perhaps make the perfect accomplice but not the perpetrator. However, he was loyal to a fault, and decorated multiple times. His actions are not those of a traitor, Mycroft.”

“Ibbotsen, then?”

“I would agree. There is one piece of information I think makes him our man. He has a younger brother, Rafe. He’s an engineer, works for a large tech company in Salford.”

“There’s a link?”

“Only that the company he works for was given the contract to produce some small parts for the same drone program as the plans that are missing. Bit of a coincidence, I should say. We're bringing him in for questioning."

“The universe is rarely so lazy, Alicia.”

“We still cannot tie Ibbotsen to the forums, but his experience and political leanings would suggest he’s the one, and given that link…”

“How are your IT boys on with tracking Ibbotsen’s phone? I think he might make a move soon. He’s sending an extraordinary number of texts, and he’s fidgety. Keeps taking walks around the perimeter of the property as though he’s testing something.”

“The man's phone is proving difficult to track, which is another nail in the coffin of his innocence. The IT chaps are doing their best, although he's put plenty of barriers in the way. They're working through them as we speak, but they're hitting problem after problem.”

“Then get them to do it faster, please. There’s only so much I can do here. There is very little privacy. However, I can only hope the same thing that holds me back is also doing the same to Ibbotsen.” 

Mycroft came away from the interview with mixed feelings. He was more than sure that Nat Ibbotsen was the one who had committed the crime, the tenuous connection with the firm his younger brother worked for was too much of a coincidence to ignore. As to what he should do…Mycroft tossed his ideas around, wondering if he could bug the man somehow, or if he could eventually get into his room… _Rest,_ he thought. It was late, and he would be better able to function with a good night's sleep under his belt. He decided to head for the kitchens in the morning to practice his signature bake. He could switch off when baking, it was like meditation. He could let his mind focus and work behind the scenes, as it were. He settled for sleep with Greg’s smile in his mind’s eye. 

**0000000**

“What do you mean, he doesn’t exist?”

“Greg, there’s nobody in the Civil Service with the name Mike or Michael Hunter who fits your description,” Dave told him. “The only Mike Hunter in the Civil Service is five foot two and blond, and he’s also too young, he’s 28, and still employed. Look, there might be any number of reasons that he doesn’t show up,” Dave said reasonably. “Greg, you’re not on duty anymore, you have to stop seeing conspiracies behind every door.”

“Doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd though? I mean, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why go in for this and not give your real name?”

“And you an ex-Inspector? Mike Hunter might be his real name, but what if he’s not telling you the truth about who he worked for? He might be embarrassed. Mike Hunter might be...oh, I dunno, nobody likes the tax man, do they? Maybe a dentist? What would you not want to admit to being on mainstream television? Might be a professional Dom...”

Greg laughed. “Jesus, Dave, he’s not the type...”

“Why not?”

“He’s a bit too...I dunno, he’s just not…”

“What type is he?”

“He’s...nice, actually. Good to talk to, he’s got a good sense of humour…”

“ _Oh, I see,”_ Dave crowed. “You fancy him, is that it?”

“Bugger off, I do not fancy him. He’s...I just don’t want anything going on to scupper this, Dave.”

“I get that, Greg, but seriously, get on with the competition, and quit worrying.”

Greg sighed. “Okay, okay, I shall bow to your judgement.”

“Good. No soggy bottoms, okay?”

“Fuck off, mate.”

“You too. Good luck with it, and congrats at still being in there…”

Mycroft was deep in thought as he stirred the fruit mixture he was prepping for jelly. The gelatine was soaking in a bowl, his sponge was in the oven, and Mycroft was considering every angle of his predicament. They had these two days off, and he was no nearer to solving this. It seemed as though he actually owed Greg Lestrade a debt of gratitude too. His younger brother was fickle and mercurial and not the easiest of people to live with but Greg had been instrumental in turning his brother’s life around and that was no easy feat. _Of all the people to come across,_ he thought. Mycroft tried to drag his thoughts back to the matter in hand but brown eyes kept invading his imagination. _Silver hair. Broad shoulders…_ Mycroft dragged himself out of his distracted thoughts with a snarl. He slammed both hands down on the worktop and huffed out a frustrated breath. _This won’t do…_

**0000000**

_“_ Mike?” Mycroft turned as Greg came toward him, coffee mug in hand. “You okay?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just...” Greg cast his eyes left and right to make sure they were alone. He had caught up with Mycroft in the practice kitchen as he was putting finishing touches to the jelly confection. "Wow, that looks...amazing."

"Thank you. What seems to be on your mind, Gregory?"

"Um...yeah, you...you’ve been a bit distracted lately. You sure you’re alright?”

“Pressure of the competition,” Mycroft lied. “My choux buns were flat, and this sponge was...irritating...” 

“Is that all, only...look, I’m sorry, but...I’m a bit worried here.”

“Worried? Pressure getting to you too.” “I’m a copper, Mike. Pressure doesn’t usually bother me.” 

Mycroft looked up at the man from where he had been peering into the oven. He stood, unkinking his back with a grimace. He did not like where this was going. “Greg…”

“Mike, I’m not joking here. You...um… Look, the fact is, you don’t show up as having been in the civil service…” Greg said it in a rush, before he might change his mind.

“Pardon?” Mycroft affected shock. “You’ve been checking up on me?”

“Yes, I did. Look, you were acting suspiciously all week, as though you were hiding something. I got to wondering...”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said….”

“I know what you said. I wonder what you meant.” Mycroft’s gaze went steely. “Are you accusing me of something?” Greg squared his shoulders, his demeanour changing subtly to that of the policeman he used to be. 

“Something’s up,” he said, firmly, “and I have no idea what. If you’re not an ex-civil servant, Mike, what are you? Why hide?”

There was a pause. “I don’t answer to you…”

“No, I know, but you do answer to the production company…”

“You wouldn’t…” 

“Try me. What’s so fucking difficult? This is a serious competition, Mike. Nobody else is acting all mysterious. I can't work you out. Your focus when we're filming is scary, but when we're not, you're not here. You seem very... _furtive_ , Mike. Your eyes are all over the place, observing everyone. You don’t really want to take part in any of the entertainment either, do you? I had to practically force you into it...and even then it was plain you weren’t enjoying it much.”

“And of course, you would know!" Mike sighed. "Actually, you _would_ know, wouldn't you? Once a policeman, always a bloody policeman, eh?” For a moment, Mycroft glared at the man, allowing anger to bleed into his expression. _Mike would be affronted, wouldn’t he? He would react badly to being checked up on by someone he liked, a fellow contestant no less. Then, however, he would capitulate, and seem to fold under the scrutiny. And then…._

 _“_ Oh, if you _must_ know…” Mycroft had made sure he had a backup plan in case this kind of thing should occur, but he hadn’t expected it from this particular quarter. He might have known Greg would be the one, ex-policeman that he was. “I used to work somewhere _terrible_ , Greg.” Mycroft watched the man’s focus intensify for a moment. _And now for the big reveal…_ “For God's sake, I worked for the _Tax Office_ , Greg! For Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs,” he said, grudgingly. “I was dealing with VAT. People hate us, and I had no wish to garner hate mail by admitting to my former profession on mainstream television. _Please,_ I beg you not to tell the others. The production company does know about it, and they agreed to allow me to change it, so it did not attract internet trolls, but...I am sorry it looked suspicious...I have no wish to alienate you, Greg…”

“Is that it, Mike? You sure that’s all? Hardly an excuse for being distracted all the damn time.”

“Isn’t that enough? I feel as if I’m on this show by false pretenses, Greg. I’m scared someone will recognise me when this airs…”

“Look, are you not well, or something? Because your behaviour in no way is explained by your changing your work history. This is affecting you every day. Do they really know? You afraid they’ll kick you off if they find out?”

“Why are you so... _bullheaded and persistent_?” Mycroft snapped, angrily. He felt the relief in his bones, but he was careful to keep it off his face. He could handle this; misdirect the man sufficiently to put him off. “Gregory, are you...are you _worried? About me_?” Greg tried not to blush, and failed. “Oh, Gregory,” Mycroft let his voice warm. “Seriously? You have no need to be worried about me.” Mycroft bit his bottom lip and looked up from under his lashes, affecting embarrassment. “It’s _embarrassing_ …even more embarrassing than admitting to working for HMRC…”

“What is?” 

Mycroft took his time answering, to give credibility to his reply. This was going to take all his acting skills to pull off. “The professional thing is bad enough, but…. I suffer physically when I’m under pressure...with IBS. I was prepared for it, but...it has flared up and taken my mind off my work. I am sorry if I’ve been distracted.” Mycroft allowed his bottom lip to tremble. “Truth to tell...,” he closed his eyes, looking for all the world as though he was trying to pull himself together. "Damn it all!" he burst out, “I miss my home, my dog, my family... _everybody_! And I can’t help it, this is... _intolerable_. I knew it wouldn’t work. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it...” As Mycroft predicted, Greg could not handle ‘Mike’ looking like a kicked puppy. 

Greg deflated, his assertiveness dissipating. The man looked strung out and stressed. “Oh, Mike, I am sorry…” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to cause a problem, honestly. I’m just a nasty suspicious old Sod. Come here,” and he engulfed the slighter frame in his arms, despite Mike being an inch taller. He felt the man stiffen and then relax against him, folding into his arms. “Honestly, I am sorry this is getting to you, and now I’ve made it worse. You should see the docs, you know. They could give you something for it…”

“Unnecessary, as I already have a prescription medication. I honestly thought it was under control, and I didn’t declare it on my medical form. I’m just terribly worried I might have to withdraw...they might make me...”

“Woah, stop. Look, Mike, see how it goes today, then see how you feel tomorrow, and if it’s still bad, how about seeing the docs then? You never know, if you take your meds, and relax a bit, things might improve enough. If they don’t, you don’t have to admit to the docs that you’ve had it before, do you? We’ve got another full day off yet anyway. You’ve got time.” 

Mycroft nodded, disengaging from Greg’s arms. He was regretful that this wasn’t genuine on his part. The man’s arms were comforting, warm, like the man himself. _It would have been nice to..._ He shook himself. He was working. _No time for dalliances...certainly not with someone who will probably hate me when it all comes out._ He could imagine no universe in which a man like Greg Lestrade would forgive being lied to. 

“Sound advice, and I shall bear it in mind,” Mycroft said. 

“Good. Look, I’m really sorry, Mike. I was a bit puzzled by your behaviour, and it rattled me. It was simply because you’ve been acting odd lately. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you know, either by your profession, or your condition. Not your fault if you’re feeling bad. IBS is nasty.” 

“The same cannot be said for my choice of profession,” Mycroft said, wryly. “I got into that deliberately.” Greg laughed, and the tension eased. However, a sudden insistant beeping interrupted them and Mycroft startled. 

“Excuse me, I need to…”

“Of course,” Greg said, stepping away as Mycroft removed more of his baking from the oven. “I’ll...leave you alone, Mike. I’ll get out of your hair.” The smell of fresh baked cake wafted over Greg and he inhaled appreciatively. “Never get enough of that gorgeous smell though,” he said, attempting a grin. “Gorgeous cake, gorgeous man,” he murmured. Mycroft just stared at him, startled at the bold compliment. He watched Greg disappear out of the kitchen, cake tray held suspended in midair. He only put it down when it began to burn his fingers. 

**0000000**

_Nearly midnight,_ Greg saw from his phone. He was tired but sleep would not come. The altercation with Mike had nearly screwed things up. He wouldn’t have broached it, bar for Dave’s revelation. Greg decided to get up, intent on going down and seeing if he could beg for some hot cocoa from the kitchen. He had tea and coffee making facilities in his room, but the supplies there were depleted, and he really wanted something more soothing. So far the kitchen staff hadn’t minded late night requests for drinks or midnight snacks. There was always someone on late duty in the kitchen as the place had security at night as well as daytime, in case anybody tried to breach the ‘biosphere’ they were in. _Maybe in case any of the contestants try to get out_ , Greg thought with amusement. So far nobody had buckled under the strain, although they had team doctors in case anybody required medical help. He padded downstairs, navigating the back corridor toward the kitchen access. 

Mycroft roused to the sound of his phone beeping instantly. He rolled and grabbed it, seeing it was Alicia.

“Mycroft, his phone is on the move…”

“Where, it’s…” Mycroft checked the time, “...after midnight. Good Lord, don’t tell me he’s attempting something tonight…” He put his phone on speaker and grabbed his linen trousers, pulling them on over his pajama bottoms. He thrust his feet into loafers and pulled on a soft jumper, while Alicia was talking.

“Our IT boys only just managed to access his phone this afternoon. His call logs are very revealing. We think we have the identity of the contact but tracing him is proving difficult. The phone has left the building, heading north. Looks like he’s heading toward the boundary. If you exit by the front door...”

Mycroft grabbed his key card and dashed out, not even stopping to see if his door closed properly. “Alicia, I can’t leave by the front door. Security will be watching. I’m leaving via the back door…the fire exit stairs…track me on gps.” 

As Greg passed the reception area, he heard a raised voice in one of the back rooms. It sounded like it was coming from the security office. Someone was on the phone, and worried, if the tone was anything to go by.

“Dunno what’s going on, CCTV seems to be playing up. We’re off-line, I tell you… Nope, all of them…” There was a pause, at which point, Greg passed the office door, which was open. From what he could see, the bank of cctv monitors were seemingly all blank. “Need someone to come fix it, now…. Yes, I do know what time it is…” _Great time to have a malfunction,_ Greg thought. _Sod’s law, that it would happen at the most inconvenient time._

Mycroft cursed as he ran down the stairs. _Damn it to Hell, if this is a false alarm..._ He made it to the fire exit and dashed into the night, cutting across the staff car park and heading around the side of the building to the grounds. Across the driveway loomed the dark woodland that bordered the property. Mycroft paused. He texted Alicia, _**where now?**_ Straining his ears to listen for the slightest sound. Her text came back almost immediately. _**300m from your position, north boundary, target stationary. Cross the access road and go straight ahead into the trees.**_

Greg was damn sure there was something wrong now. He was about to push the kitchen door open when he heard the fire door at the bottom of the stairs open. He turned to his left in time to see someone dash outside. _What the fu…? That was Mike!_ Nobody on the crew or staff had hair that colour. He was wearing his dark linen trousers too. Mike would not just run off like that without needing help of some kind. Greg set off after him into the warm summer night without a second’s thought. 

Mycroft tracked through the woodland. It was not quite dark, the summer night still with that cobalt glow that you only get in summer. Under the trees though, that was quite dark and Mycroft worried he would put his foot in a hole and break his ankle… He couldn’t see anyone ahead, and stopped frequently to listen. Nothing.

He wanted to text Alicia again, but knew the light might reveal his whereabouts. His phone vibrated and he ducked behind a tree to read it.

**50m and closing, on your 2 o’clock. Sending a team to your location. Secure the scene.**

Wondering exactly what he could do about what was rapidly turning into a farce, Mycroft turned and walked resolutely off the path and into the trees, sure he would make a noise and give away his presence. He stepped carefully, and slower than he would have liked, keeping a weather eye ahead of him. 

Greg walked into the trees, seeing a faint glow from a phone ahead of him. Totally puzzled about what was going on, he stepped slowly and carefully onto the path that led through between the trunks of old oaks and chestnuts. The woodland walk was pretty in daylight but right now it was forbidding. He was pretty sure the boundary wall was close. That could spell trouble, especially if Mike was meeting someone and breaking their quarantine bubble. He froze as he spotted a figure cross his path, unsure whether it was Mike or not, but whoever it was hadn’t spotted Greg. 

Mycroft walked closer, his phone vibrating again. He snuck a look at the screen. 

**You are almost on top of him. Status report!**

Mycroft frowned, taking another step forward. Something caught his eye and he looked down. On the ground, less than two yards ahead of him, lay a mobile phone, its screen glowing. His brain screamed a warningbut he didn’t have time to react before pain exploded through his head and he knew no more. 

Greg watched the indistinct figure move into the trees ahead of him. Whoever it was, he or she was completely oblivious to his presence. He stayed still and silent as his eyes adjusted to the dark, then realised he could see a second figure further away to the right, revealed in a patch of moonlight. He watched the new figure bend down. Greg then had to watch helplessly as the first figure closed the gap between them, and brought his arm down fast, the blow striking hard. With a grunt, person number two collapsed. It took everything Greg had not to make a noise, not to run forward, not to respond at all. He waited, heart beating hard, watching as number one looped his arms under number two and dragged him away, toward the boundary. Greg spurred himself into action and followed, pretty sure he wouldn’t be heard above the dragging sounds the other was making. As he passed by where they had been standing, he spotted a phone on the floor. He bent to retrieve it, finding it familiar. He was sure it was Mike’s. There was a text on screen.

**Status report! Rescue on way.**

Greg had no idea what to do with that. He had no idea who it was at the end of the messages. If he responded he might be giving himself away. He scrolled back through the messages, reading quickly, trying to keep his eyes on where the other man was headed. The trees opened up and Greg could see where the unconscious person was being dragged along by the other, parallel to the low boundary wall. 

Greg paused in the shadow of a tree and glanced at the phone in his hand. _Rescue on the way? Sending a team to your location?_ The phone buzzed again.

**Please respond! Subject on the move.**

Greg kept moving from tree to tree until he saw headlights in the distance. A vehicle? A rendezvous then. That might mean more people. He needed back up, and he realised he didn’t have his own mobile on him. _Damn it, now what do I do?_ Keeping half an eye on what was happening ahead of him—the man had dropped his captive and was busy tying his hands together—he keyed Dave Bradstreet’s number from memory, hoping he had it right. 

“Bradstreet. Who is this? Do you know what the fucking time is?” 

“Dave,” Greg hissed, trying not to speak too loudly.

“The Fuck? Greg?”

“Shut up and listen,” Greg whispered. “I’m in trouble. Told you something was going on here. This is my mate’s phone. I need you to send back up to stop a car leaving the area around our hotel.”

“Fucking Hell, Greg...What’s going on?”

“No time, Dave! Please! I need maximum back-up, now! Northern boundary, 300 meters west of the main gate…” 

Mycroft roused to find he had a blinding headache, and his hands had been secured behind his back. _Bloody buggering…_ He tried to free himself but to no avail, he was zip tied. He lay there wondering what to do and knew Alicia would be sending the troops, he just wasn’t sure when they would arrive. It might, he thought regretfully, be too late. He had no idea where Ibbotsen was or what was happening.

“I don’t know! This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Mycroft turned his head on hearing the raised voice to see headlight beams from a stationary vehicle, and two men arguing, backlit by the glow. He recognised Ibbotsen’s voice. “He’s a contestant, and he followed me. Been bugging me all week and now this. Look, just give me the money, and I’m outta here….” There was a reply too low to hear. “ _You sort it out!_ This wasn’t the agreement….” Someone else responded angrily to that, a man to go by the timbre. The voice wasn’t loud enough or near enough to hear the words, but Nat took exception to them. “The agreement was I transfer the first part of the plans, you hand over the cash. Once I get to a secure location, I send on the next part of the plans, you follow it up and gimme the rest, then, and only then, do I pass the rest over.”

“That was before you screwed up,” came the angry reply, voice raised enough to heard this time. “Someone followed you, and I hate loose ends…” There was a distinct Eastern European flavour to the accent, possibly Serbian. _Not that knowing that will do me much good if I can’t get away..._

“Damn you, this isn’t how it was supposed to go…” Ibbotsen sounded panicky. 

“No, it is not,” came the reply, too close and too clear for Mycroft’s liking. 

Risking a look around, Mycroft realised he was not completely in plain sight. He had been left by the gateway on the boundary, but he was still partially in shadow. If it wasn’t for those damn headlights... He struggled to sit, to put the wall between himself and the two men, hoping he might be able to disappear into the undergrowth and give himself a chance to escape before they realised he’d gone. He needed to put some distance between him and the enemy until the troops arrived. If only his head wasn’t splitting and making it hard to think, never mind move. Suddenly, a shot rang out behind him, loud in the silence of the trees. Mycroft peered around the gatepost in time to see Ibbotsen’s body fall forward almost slowly, landing in front of the vehicle. That was a game changer. 

When the shot went off, Greg did the only thing he could think of, he dived for cover behind the low stone wall of the boundary. It didn’t give him anything like as much protection as he would have liked between him and someone with a gun. However, that person did not know he was there. Greg took the phone and texted **shots fired** to the anonymous number, before dropping it in the pocket of his sleep trousers. _He_ worked a fist-sized stone out of the dry stone wall beside him and hefted it experimentally. _Solid, not too heavy, good enough_. He quickly removed another one, and another, and another, and laid them ready in front of him. He had to make them count. He heard footsteps on gravel. Peering over the wall, he saw the car, and a man with a gun walking toward the gate. There was a body lying in front of the vehicle. Greg scrambled to his feet and with a quick drawing back of his arm, he bowled as fast as he could, the stone whistling through the air. It missed his target, one of the headlights, but connected solidly with the bonnet and bounced off with a satisfying bang. The noise made the gunman whirl around, unsure where the attack had come from. Silhouetted in the headlight’s glare, he was a sitting duck. Greg launched another rock, wishing he could have had a run up to it, but muscle memory kicked in, the cricket field at Hendon came back to him as he launched the rock hard, overarm, putting his bulk and strength behind it. 

The man didn’t see it coming. It struck him full in the face. He cried out, staggered, dazed enough to drop his gun. Greg didn’t wait for him to recover. He vaulted the low wall, another stone clutched in his hand, hoping he didn’t go arse over tit in the rough ground. The man he had hit was reeling, blood pouring from his nose. Greg ran at him, the stone clutched in his hand colliding solidly with the man’s skull. This time the gunman went over backwards with the force of Greg’s attack, out cold before he hit the ground.

 _First things first._ Greg retrieved the gun, made sure the safety was on, and pocketed it. As fast as he could, Greg rifled the man’s pockets, found his car keys and then dragged him bodily back to his car. He opened the boot, quickly checked that there were no more weapons in there, then tipped him inside, and closed the boot, locking the car securely. Greg pocketed the keys, pausing to check the body on the way. Relief that it wasn’t Mike flooded through him. The man’s hair was a different colour. He rolled the body over. “Nat?” The man was dead, the bullet had gone through his heart. “Bloody Hell. What on earth is this all about?” 

“G.G.Greg?” The shaky voice came from the gateway. 

“Mike, is that you? You okay?” Greg examined the man for injuries, finding a nasty lump on the back of his head. It didn’t feel like his skull was damaged but while he was first aid trained, Greg wasn’t a doctor. “You need a hospital, Mike. What the Hell is all this about? What’s going on?” 

“Gregory, please, trust me. Get us away from here before my people turn up. They’ll be on their way, and if you don’t do as I say we may well get caught up in it all.”

“But they’re the good guys, aren’t they?”

“Gregory, they’ll be armed and won’t hesitate to shoot. This is a matter of National Security. They will be here in minutes and they don’t mess about. I would rather you not risk becoming collateral damage…”

“Come on then, let’s both get out of here.” 

“Don’t bother trying to untie me then, but we must move quickly…”

Greg lifted Mike to his feet with an arm looped under his, and helped him away into the trees. They left the scene as fast as possible, stumbling back to the hotel. They gained entry by the back door again, hearing raised voices down the hall in the vicinity of the security room. Greg briefly wondered if they had heard the shot or if it was the ongoing implications of the cctv outage before he was stumbling up the backstairs with Mycroft. 

“Listen, Mike, I called a colleague, there’ll be police all over here before too long…”

“Might have known you would have called in the cavalry. You don’t have my phone by chance?”

“Yes, but you’re still tied. Let’s get back to my room, I’ve got a multitool I can free you with…” 

Once they were back in his room, he sat Mycroft down on the bed. Retrieving his Leatherman pliers from his bag, he snipped through the zip ties. 

“Am I to assume you were a Boy Scout?” Mycroft enquired, massaging his wrists.

Greg chuckled. “Nope, I just like to be prepared, that’s all. For anything,” he added, giving Mycroft his phone back. “Looks like I need to be around you.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft took possession of his phone and proceeded to send off a flurry of texts.

“Oi, look at me a mo?” 

“What?” 

“Just look at me.” Greg shone a pen torch into Mike’s eyes, to see his pupils react a little sluggishly. Not uneven though. “You seeing double? How many fingers?”

“Seriously, Gregory, I do not have time for this…” “How many fingers, Mike?”

“Two?”

Greg frowned. “You’re not acting like you’ve got concussion, but you should get checked out, love. Headache?”

“Yes, somewhat. Being hit on the head tends to induce one.”

“Yeah, well, when are your people getting here?”

“They’re already here. I was letting my colleague know where I am.”

“Tell me something, Mike. Have I just helped a criminal?”

“What? No, of course not. I did say it was a matter of National Security…”

“You’re definitely not a Vatman though. _Batman_ perhaps.”

“Very droll. I am not 007 either. Merely an operative of Her Majesty’s Government…”

“You’re a spook?”

“Not...exactly.” 

“Whatever, as long as I’m not going to be arrested for complicitous behaviour.”

“I rather think a medal for bravery is in order. Seriously, where did you learn to bowl like that?”

“First eleven, Hendon cricket team.”

“I had you down for a football man, or rugby.”

“Nothing to say I can’t do both, you know. Besides, Hendon was a long time ago.”

“If you can bowl like that now, I wouldn’t have liked to face off against you when you were twenty,” Mycroft said, glancing at his phone. “They have located the car, and the contact. They have extracted him from the boot of his car, and now he’s on route to secure accomodation. Job done. Alicia needs to speak to us, and we need to know how to proceed…”

“You need to proceed to hospital, soon as,” Greg insisted. “You were out cold, and that needs checking out.”

“I will, although...I fear this will be goodbye, Gregory.” 

Greg paused. “You lied to me, didn’t you? Royally, as it happens.” He tried to give the man a forbidding frown. Some of his constables had quailed on seeing that frown. Somehow, though, he couldn’t make it work as well in the face of this man.

“Yes, I’m afraid I did," Mycroft replied regretfully. "Unfortunately, I had no choice. Even you were suspect for a time. We knew someone had stolen some sensitive information, and was about to pass it to his contact, the man you placed in the boot of his car, but we didn’t know who it was, we just had reliable intel that he was a contestant on this show. I was placed here to find out which one of the four male contestants was the culprit, I’m afraid.” 

“You were undercover? On bake-Off? Bloody Hell… So, what happens now then?”

There was a sudden knock on the door. “I think,” Mycroft said, “that we are about to find out…” 

“Mycroft,” Alicia said, ignoring Greg as he opened the door, crossing the room quickly to her colleague's side. She took his hands in hers. “How are you?”

“Medical attention is probably required,” Mycroft admitted. “I was knocked out."

"And you are?" Greg enquired, a bit frostily. 

"This is my colleague." Mycroft did not give her name. "This is Greg Lestrade, former DI with Scotland Yard." Mycroft returned his attention to Alicia and frowned. "How do we proceed from here?”

The lady sighed, and her gaze encompassed Greg as well. “Thank you, Inspector Lestrade,” she said, sincerely, “for coming to Mycroft’s rescue. If you hadn’t...well, it is safe to say he probably wouldn’t be with us and the plans would be gone, along with the contact. Serbian, by the way. We shall find out who. So...unfortunately, the hotel has had a breach of security. CCTV was hacked…”

“So that’s what he was doing, walking the perimeter, probably testing the limits of the jamming signal,” Mycroft observed.

“CCTV was out when I passed by earlier,” Greg said. “Before I followed you.”

“Quite. However, the quarantine is now breached. We have to work out what to do about that. At the moment, nobody else is involved, apart from you two. I think it best for all concerned for you to leave tonight, Mycroft. You do need medical attention, after all.”

“What about Ibbotsen?” Mycroft asked. “How do you propose to explain that?”

“I dare say we can blame it all on Ibbotsen. We can say he breached security, and his IT skills allowed him to jam CCTV. You can be the subject of a medical scare, Mycroft, or rather Mike Hunter will. We’ll spread the story that you were collected in the night by ambulance, and whisked off, emergency, appendicitis or something. No ambulance would have its sirens on at this time, so none of the other people here would necessarily know you had been spirited away. Ibbotsen took advantage of that to jam cctv and meet with someone. We can always say Greg here phoned an ambulance for you…”

“I’m afraid...I breached quarantine too,” Greg admitted. “After all, I got close to the contact.”

The lady nodded. “A little messy,” she agreed, “but I think we can sort it out.” Alicia seemed confident. “We shall of course compensate Channel Four but I think you might find filming needs to start again. From scratch, or they’ll need to pause it. I am sure we can rely on the inspector’s discretion, can we not? Obviously this cannot be allowed to get out.” 

“I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act too, you know?” Greg said, and dragged a smile up from somewhere. “Oh, you probably need this.” He retrieved the gun from his pocket and offered it over. “He dropped it when I threw a stone at him.”

“You threw a stone?”

“He bowled it, Alicia,” Mycroft explained. “To say he merely threw it is a travesty of the highest order. There are some members of the England Cricket Team who would wet themselves for a delivery like that.”

“I wondered why his nose was broken,” Alicia said, warmth in her tone. “I think in view of your galant actions tonight, and the fact that your record is without blemish, I think we can trust you to maintain radio silence in this instance.” She became brisk. “I have to leave you for a moment or two. I need to clear up things here with security, and I need to arrange some transport for you, Mycroft, among other things. Well,” she said, her manner businesslike. “Make your goodbyes, and Greg, you’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m fine. A bit shaken, but otherwise, I’m okay. I’ll probably ache in the morning.” Greg flexed his shoulder. “Not bowled overarm like that in too long, but needs must. I’ll survive. I’ll tell the docs I fell in the shower or something.” 

“Capital. In that case, stay here for now, in your room, confine yourself to quarters. I shall inform the producer of what has happened, and Pru of course. I'll make sure someone delivers meals to you, but for now, stay isolated. I’m sure the future of the program will be sorted by tomorrow.” She nodded to Mycroft and left. 

“So...you’ve got to leave?” Greg asked.

“I was never meant to stay. Greg...I…” 

“Look, don’t apologise,” Greg interrupted. “There’s nothing to apologise for. You were doing your job.”

“This may have ruined your chances on Bake-off…which I profoundly regret…”

“If it has, it has. It was a dare anyway. I never expected to get to the end of it, you know?”

“Yes, I know, but I honestly think you could. You are an amazing baker. Perfect choux buns, a wonderful fraisier, and your Quiche aux Champignons won you Star Baker. You could have gone to the top, Greg.” 

“Mike, what _is_ your real name? Did she call you _Mycroft_?” He watched Mycroft nod. “It’s certainly unusual. Sure I’ve heard it before though.”

“You have. My full name is Mycroft _Holmes_.” Mycroft watched Greg as the realisation sank in. 

“Are you…? No, not Sherlock’s brother? There can’t be _two_ Mycroft's in London…”

“There cannot be two in the world, never mind London. Believe me, you wouldn’t want there to be.” Mycroft’s phone pinged. “Damn. Alicia has a car waiting. I should pack.” 

“You should just go. I’m sure someone can collect your stuff. Give me your key and I’ll pack it for you. Someone can collect it, surely.”

“No. You need to stay here. Catch up on your sleep, and self isolate. Do not leave your room. If you behave there might be something to salvage from this.”

“Yes, boss. Look...Mike...I mean, _Mycroft_ , could I...um...would you mind if...well...When this is over, I’d like to see you again. Start over. What do you say?”

“But...I lied to you...I was…”

“ _You had your reasons_. Christ, but I’m going to miss you,” Greg admitted. “It won’t be the same without you here.”

“You’ll miss me? But you don’t know me, Greg. Not the _real_ me...”

“Yes, I bloody well will miss you, and I know enough to see the real you behind the facade, Mycroft. I enjoyed every minute of it. I mean, I know it was stressful, but...I _like_ you. Loved working with you. Whatever, _Mycroft_ , stay safe. Go get yourself sorted out.” 

Mycroft stood, and the silence was awkward. He smiled, stoically. “You take care too. Have more confidence in yourself, Greg. You are amazing, truly. You deserve to get to the top.” 

“You...um… you didn’t say if we could meet…” Greg stopped himself. “Okay, I get it. Better a clean break, hm? Well, it’s been good. Take care, My...Mike.” Mycroft tried to ignore the huskiness of emotion in Greg’s voice. 

“You too…oopmh!” The air whooshed from Mycroft’s lungs as Greg grabbed him into a hug. He felt Mycroft’s arms snake around his back and they stood like that until Mycroft’s phone pinged again, insistently. Then Greg let go, his smile brave. 

“Go,” he said, gently. Mycroft nodded, walking to the door. He suddenly seemed to have a change of heart and turned back, crossing quickly to Greg, cupping his face in both hands and planting a kiss squarely on his lips. The pressure lasted all too briefly, and then Mycroft was gone, Alicia waiting on the other side of the door to escort him out. The door clicked shut quietly and with a finality that Greg hated.


	3. A Trail of Crumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft deal with the aftermath.

“Bakers, your time is up. Step away from your showstoppers.” 

Mycroft brought his tea into the living room and sat down on the couch, surveying the variety of show stopping cakes on display. They were down to four contestants, Seb Moran, Greg Lestrade, Janine Hawkins, and Mavis Forester. Every showstopper was amazing. Their task had been to make a cake for a younger person’s birthday. Mavis had made a rainbow cake with icing butterflies cascading from it and a larger rainbow on top. Seb Moran’s was a very detailed tank, complete with revolving turret, and Janine’s was a half metre of tree trunk fairy house, with moss, leaves, and delicate icing flowers, chocolate ‘wood’, and small doors which opened. Greg’s cake was a perfectly constructed TARDIS.

“Why are you doing a Tardis cake?” Pru had asked on their walk-around the bakers. 

Greg grinned and said simply, “I’m an ex-policeman. I began my career on the beat, so it seemed to be the best fit really.”

“Is it going to be bigger on the inside?” Mat asked, grinning. “I do have experience of these things…”

“Wait and see,” Greg had said enigmatically. 

His effort had an opening door, and a modelled icing interior. The light on the top shining through clear sugar glass was an embedded battery tea light. In short, the layers of blue sponges and buttercream were perfect, and so was the icing. Inside, when it was cut, small icing stars spilled from the center cavity. It delighted the judges. 

“And the Star Baker is, Greg Lestrade…” _Star baker twice,_ Mycroft thought. That meant he was into the final. Mavis was the one going home. Mycroft watched, missing Greg keenly. 

Mycroft wondered that the series had survived at all. Post the incident, with two people gone, Alicia told him that the filming had been reset, Channel 4 had been compensated, and everyone who was left had to isolate for another nine days again, and take more tests. The whole thing was started up again and Richard, Bonny and Adele had been invited back. Two more people, Rachel Andrews, yet another IT consultant, and Kim Tanner, estate agent, had replaced the missing Mike Hunter and Nat Ibbotsen as if they’d never been. At least there would be no footage of Mike on screen as Channel 4 had been instructed to erase it all. Bonny still fell at the first hurdle, although her baking was significantly better than it had been, her attitude was not. This time, Richard lasted five weeks. If anybody got wind of the problems the show had experienced, it was explained away as one contestant falling severely ill (non-covid related) and needing emergency treatment, and the other breaching quarantine to see his fiance, using the incident to cover his tracks. 

_The final is next week,_ Mycroft thought, _and Greg will be there_. Despite his own misgivings, Greg was a finalist. Mycroft had been vindicated in his opinion, he had been sure the man could make it to the final, even if he didn’t win. 

As he was getting up to go make more tea, there was a knock at his door. That was unusual in itself, because normally he was informed by text if someone was calling. He approached the door cautiously. The spy hole revealed none other than Greg Lestrade himself, standing on his doorstep, looking nervous.

“How did you get….oh, _of course_ , Sherlock,” Mycroft said, on opening the door. 

“Yeah, I asked him for your address,” Greg admitted. “Hope you don’t mind. I...um...well, if you do, just say. I can go away again.” 

“No. please don’t. You’ve come this far.” Mycroft threw the door wide. “Please, come in.” he stepped aside and Greg walked past him into the house. He was carrying a cake tin.

“Drink?” Mycroft offered.

“I could murder a coffee.”

“I do not think such drastic action will be warranted. Make yourself at home.”

Greg looked about him appreciatively. “Nice place.” 

“Thank you.” Mycroft paused and turned toward his guest. “Greg…?”

“Hm?”

“Have you been alright? What you did...I never got the opportunity to thank you properly. I dare say there is a chance you and I would not now be having this conversation had you not been there. How on earth did you know?”

“Saw you disappear through the fire door. Pure chance, really. Couldn’t sleep, I’d gone to the kitchen to see about a hot drink, then I heard the door go and saw you fleeing the scene. The rest is history.” 

“Well, I am eternally grateful to you. Greg…”

“Hm?”

“You saw a man shot and killed in front of you...You felled a gunman…I am at a loss as to how you are alright…”

Greg fixed Mycroft with a frown. “He was a bad man, Mike, and frankly, a bloody awful gunman too. He was an amateur. As for Nat, ‘course I’m not alright about it. I mean, it was Nat. Okay, so I didn’t know him well, but he was still someone I worked with. But I’m a copper. I was with Homicide and Serious Crimes for decades. Saw some frankly bloody awful stuff in my time too. He wasn’t my first dead body, after all. I’ve seen some horrific injuries, stuff so bad it made bullet wounds look bland. You can add to that the fact that I’ve talked to so many counselors, I could probably do the bloody job by now. I know the strategies, the therapy, and I did take the opportunity to talk to someone, Mike. Don’t worry, I didn’t give details. No confidences were broken.”

“I have complete confidence in you, Gregory. Do not worry about that. I am glad you were sensible about it.” 

Greg nodded. “I’ll be okay. I’ve not been in the Met for thirty years without learning a thing or two, one being not to ignore your mental health, so don’t worry too much on that score.”

“As long as you managed to overcome any... _aftereffects_.”

“Were you okay? I admit I asked Sherlock about you.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a lot, beyond saying you were still insufferable, which I took to be good news that you were back to normal...or whatever passes for normal where you’re concerned.”

Mycroft chuckled. “He would say that. I was perfectly alright, apart from a lump on my skull.” Mycroft tapped his head gently over the offending area. “It’s fine now. He rattled my brains, nothing more serious, thank goodness. So, what happened after I left?”

“Did as I was told. I went back to bed and actually slept like a log. Felt a bit guilty about that actually. I mean, Nat was dead and you were gone and I slept like a baby as if nothing had happened.…”

”Nonsense,” Mycroft murmured. “You were probably exhausted. You said you hadn’t been able to sleep and then you were kept awake even longer, not to mention subjected to something that must have triggered the production of adrenaline. You probably crashed once it wore off.”

Greg nodded. “When you put it like that, maybe. Anyway, I woke up to Ceri at my door, telling me the Producer wanted to see everybody. Big meeting, big accusations, and of course there was no you and no Ibbotsen, so I faked ignorance. The producer told us Nat’d been disqualified and sent home, and you’d been taken to hospital, not expected to return, and due to Nat’s breaking of quarantine, we’d all have to start filming again. We were down on contestants and it would look bloody odd if we simply carried on. A lot of people were pissed about it, but there was nothing anyone could do, except contact their families and their workplaces and explain. We all had to self-isolate again, and the previous contestants were being called back, and then we’d give it another go, unless anyone didn’t want to return. We all had to take more tests, and we began again, four weeks behind schedule.” 

“My apologies concerning that. Perhaps that was my fault."

”How so?”

”It was considered best if my face was kept off the television. They were told to erase any and all footage with me on it, to preserve my anonymity. It seemed to work though, I’ve been watching it.”

“Yeah, it worked. Not the same though, somehow. I think the newbies were a bit at a disadvantage because we’d already been there for a while, the rest of us had bonded, and we’d practiced. They gave us totally new challenges anyway, made it a more level playing field. Not sure we all appreciated going through all that stress again though.”

“So what have you been doing since filming ended?” 

“I’m writing a book about my gran’s French recipes, been approached by a publisher to do it because I used a lot during the series. What else? I seem to have answered a backlog of a million emails. Got around to decorating my flat as well. Done plenty of baking...oh, here, made these for you. Grand-mère’s recipe.” He handed over the tin and Mycroft smiled at the Florentines stacked inside. “They look perfect, thank you. So...are you allowed to tell me who won?”

“You don’t want to wait until next week?”

“Well...I have to admit, there was only one good reason for watching the series.”

“Only one?”

“Yes, and he’s standing right in front of me.”

Greg’s smile blossomed again. “Missed you too.”

“So, can you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Greg said, acting innocent. 

“You know very well what. Who won?”

“Not _really_ allowed to say anything,” Greg said, regretfully. “It wasn’t me though, sorry to say. Wasn’t Janine either.”

“That’s what you call not saying anything, is it?” 

Greg smiled. “Yeah, kind of. I’m a terrible liar though.”

Mycroft frowned.“Does that mean you did win? Or one of the others....”

“Told you. Can’t say anything.”

“So you did win?”

“Liar. Terrible at it, remember?”

“I signed the official secrets act too, you know,” Mycroft said, with a smile. “You could trust me…”

“Nah, you can wait until next week, like everybody else.”

“Torturer.” 

Greg paused, smile fading, manner uncertain. “Look, Mike... _Mycroft_ , I mean...could we start over? You and me? Fact is, I really like you, and I’ve missed you like crazy. It wasn’t the same after you’d gone. I want to properly get to know you. The _real_ you.” 

“I am not sure you would like the real me, Gregory. You were missing the person you thought you knew, and that person doesn’t really exist. Besides, I am not sure I could give you what you need. My life does not conform to normal standards…” “Pft, define _normal_ for Heaven Sake. My life isn’t _normal_ now. Life is too short, Mycroft. Gimme a chance, at least. Let _me_ decide if I like the real you before you write yourself off.” 

Mycroft sighed. “I was right, you are bullheaded and persistent.” 

Greg grinned. “But I am a great baker.”

“That...cannot be denied. Very well then. How would dinner this Friday sound?”

“Prefect. Shall I bring dessert?”

Mycroft stepped close, bringing his hand up to cup Greg’s face. “Darling,” he said, and his voice was a sultry purr, “at the risk of sounding very, _very_ clichéd, if I have anything to do with it, _you_ will be dessert.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, folks... Oh, what? Wait. You don't know who won yet? Hm... well...


	4. And The Winner Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a winner, ladies and gents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus epilogue! Well, I couldn't in all conscience leave any loose ends. Mycroft would not have approved. You seriously didn’t think I’d leave it there without letting you find out who won? Did you? Oh, ye of little faith. Here we are then.

**Five days to go...**

“So, did you win?” Mycroft speculated.

“Sorry, no, I didn’t…”

“But…you said you were a terrible liar,” Mycroft observed.

“Yeah, I am.”

“So…”

“Mycroft…”

“You really are not going to tell me, are you?”

Greg’s grin was blinding, again. “Mycroft, publishers don’t approach many runners up to write books...” 

“But you might be lying about that too…”

“Told you, wait until next week…”

**Four days to go…**

“Let’s have a party.”

“Party?”

“Yeah you know, a viewing party. Let’s invite your brother…”

“My brother? I am not sure he would accept,” Mycroft said uncertainly. “After all, I am not sure he even likes Bake-Off…” 

“Well, let’s give him a chance, eh?”

“If we invite Sherlock, you should invite John too.”

“That’s his partner, right?”

“Yes, Doctor Watson. Perhaps we should invite John and Sherlock will tag along too.” 

“Well, if we invite them, can I invite Seb...and if we invite Seb, then we’ll have to invite Richard. They’re practically in each other’s pockets these days. Did I tell you, they’re planning a June wedding next year.”

“Really? That was fast.”

“Yeah, they both fell hard there. Nice though, for the both of them.”

“Gregory...are you sure?”

“Yes, it’ll be fun. I’d love to invite Sally, but...I think she and Sherlock might kill each other. It would eclipse my staring moment…” 

“As much fun as those hotel quiz nights, I suspect…”

**Two days to go...**

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Meant to say, there’s one thing I’m not lying about…”

“Which is?”

“I think I’m in love with you…” 

“And how on earth do I know you are not lying about that too?”

For answer, Greg leaned in and kissed his partner soundly on the lips, hands cradling Mycroft’s face. “One thing I will never lie about, Mike. Never ever. Promise.”

“You are still not going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope….”

**D Day**

“Budge up…”

“Gregory…”

“What? There’s plenty of room. Turn it up, I can’t hear it…”

“Gregory, you are worse than a three year old.” 

“Look, cannot help it if your brother is taking up more than his share of sofa…”

“I am not hogging the sofa, Gordon…”

“It’s Greg!” chorused five voices.

“Whatever,” Sherlock said with a distinct pout, placing his head on John’s shoulder.

“Shut it,” John murmured affectionately, from the other end of the sofa, kissing Sherlock as his partner turned his face up for a reassuring kiss. 

“For God’s sakes, will you get a room,” Seb complained. He and Rich were happily cohabiting on the other sofa in Mycroft’s ‘tv room’, Sharing a bowl of popcorn. 

“All of you, shut the fuck up and have a bun,” Greg ordered, shoving a plate at Sherlock. It was laden with offerings that Greg and Mycroft had spent the day baking. There were choux buns and cup cakes, biscuits and macarons. In pride of place, a Fraisier, like the first signature bake Greg had ever done. 

“Ooo, here it comes…” Richard said excitedly, as they all watched the technical being judged. “Oh, my God, Sebby, you came first! They loved your technical...” he crowed, punching his partner on the arm.

“No big deal,” Seb said, with a grin. “You know I don’t win, right?”

“Yes, I know...shh, the others don’t know yet.”

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock drawled. “Graham is going to win.”

“How is that obvious?” John demanded to know. “And it’s Greg, you utter Cock.”

“Don’t set him off, John. We’ll never hear the end of it,” Greg said.

“It’s hot,” Sherlock declared, “and _Greg_ is very judiciously picking bakes that do not require much in the way of freezing to set. As long as they don’t set them a showstopper with icecream as a component, he should be fine.”

“You saw that? How the fuck did you know that?” Rich demanded.

“I do not see, I _observe_. I notice details.”

“That was amazing…” Rich said, in awe of Sherlock’s talents.

“Pardon?”

“Brilliant…” 

“That’s...not what people usually say…”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off…”

The heat melted Janine’s buttercream filling from her signature, and Greg’s had been placed second. Again, Greg was second in the technical, and it looked like it would be a close thing between Seb and Greg. Janine would have to pull some serious baking out of the hat to win.

The showstopper was supposed to be what Bake Off had meant to them all. There had to be three types of pastry in there, with a sponge cake base. Janine had chosen to build an abstract three-tiered cake built from a pyramid of choux buns with chocolate and strawberries, a salted caramel biscuit disc and a chocolate sponge cake on the bottom, layered with strawberry buttercream and chocolate icing. It was good, but not spectacular. The strawberry taste wasn’t as strong as the judges would have liked, and there wasn’t enough salt in the salted caramel. 

Seb had constructed a three-tier as well. His was a toffee cookie disc on the top with a cage of caramel toffee strands sitting on it, mounted over a small pastry basket of summer berries sitting on the middle of the cookie. Beneath were two sponges, one on top of the other. The middle one was a salted caramel sponge, and the bottom one was a Welsh Bara Brith tea bread. The taste and texture were good in all layers although the judges picked him up on the salted caramel sponge lacking in salt again. Seb took a risk, making all the bakes that he knew he hadn’t been so good at during the previous weeks.

“A bold and courageous move,” Mycroft observed, with respect. Seb smiled at the compliment.

“Well, I was there to learn, to push myself, and I did,” he said. “Pulled it off in the end though.” 

“Smug bastard,” Rich said, fondly. 

“Your smug bastard…”

“Jesus, your turn to get a room,” Sherlock muttered. “You two are nauseatingly happy, aren’t you?”

“Like you’re not,” Seb retorted, grinning. “Hey, Greg? Would you bake us a wedding cake next year?”

“Yeah, sure. When’s the happy day?”

“June 21st, we hope. Midsummer day.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Why can’t _I_ make our wedding cake?” Richard demanded to know.

“Because you and I will both have too much to do, darlin’,” Seb said, grabbing the smaller man for a hug. “You’ll spend the day panicking and I’ll spend it worrying about you panicking.”

Greg’s show stopper was a large carnival roundabout. When asked why, he said that the whole thing had been a whirlwind of emotion, learning new things, and that he never dreamed he’d get so far. He still felt like his head was spinning, and this really reflected his feelings. One of the horses was breaking away, jumping off the roundabout. 

“Stop the world, I wanna get off,” Greg explained. “I did this for a dare, and sometimes I felt like I wanted to make a run for it, but now...I’m flying,” he admitted. There was a wide carrot and orange cake base, in three layers of orange sponge, graded in colour from dark to pale. Inside it, the center was cut out, hiding a turntable. Balanced on the turntable sat another cake, with a large tube in the middle, holding up the carousel roof. The horses were delicately iced biscuits, on rods, sunk through the cake to hold them up. The whole thing turned when pushed. It was a frankly awesome thing to behold. 

“This...is amazing,” Pru said, as the camera focused on a distinctly nervous Greg. Paul cut through the sponge, and took a biscuit horse from its perch, laying them on the plates. “Let’s see if the taste matches the presentation, which is spectacular by the way…” He paused, counting. “Okay, I can see sponge, and biscuit...but where’s the third type of bake?”

“The roof,” Greg replied. “Triangular pink and yellow macaron…” 

**0000000**

“And the winner of Bake Off 2020 is…”

They had all gone into the garden where the party was taking place, with all the previous contestants and some of the staff and crew. The three of them lined up in a bit of a daze, Seb, Janine, and Greg, facing the judges and the two presenters. 

The six weeks that had inadvertently turned into ten for some of them had been a trial, and Greg couldn’t say that he’d enjoyed every minute. Some things had been exceptionally hard; the second period of enforced isolation, the stress and pressure of the filming, not to mention missing Mycroft. He had needed to put his feelings about Nat’s death on the back burner until they finished and he could escape and book an appointment with his counsellor. He had instead thrown himself into the competition, concentrated on each stage, practiced as much as he could, struggled with some of the technicals and worried that his efforts wouldn’t be good enough. At the end, all he could think of was Mycroft. Would he still feel the same way? Would they have anything they could call a relationship?

“Greg Lestrade.” He heard his name, but didn’t register it. All around him people were suddenly clapping and slapping him on the back and hugging him… 

“Bloody Hell, I’ve won?” He couldn’t believe it. 

“Bloody Well done!” Rich was calling to him as Greg re-lived the moment from his perch on the sofa next to his partner. 

Mycroft snaked an arm around his shoulders and hugged him. “Very well deserved,” he said, proudly. 

“I dare say your showstopper deserved merit,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly, startling John. 

“Coming from you, that’s high praise indeed,” Greg replied. “Thank you, lad.”

“Just don’t give John ideas,” Sherlock said. “I am not a fan of too much sweet stuff.”

“That’s not what you said the other night,” John said slyly.

“For Goodness sake,” Sherlock muttered. “If you could just stop with the childish double entendres.”

“Make me,” John challenged, laughing when Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

Greg laughed, and caught Mycroft’s eye. 

Mycroft watched Greg laugh, returning a fond smile, a little perplexed that this was the direction his life was taking. _My partner is the winner of the Great British Bake-Off,_ Mycroft considered. _What on earth am I to tell Alicia? I fell for his rock cakes?_ Mycroft’s smile widened, amused at his own whimsy. _Does it matter what I tell them? He’s my chosen significant other. He might have been an astronaut, or a teacher, a fellow diplomat perhaps. What matters is he’s trustworthy, and I love him._ The thought warmed him all the way to his toes. 

**0000000**

“Bloody Hell, Mike,” Greg said, wearily. “If I’d known this is what my life would become six months ago, I’d never have agreed to go in for the damn thing…” They had just returned from a radio interview about a forthcoming television series Greg would be presenting. He was due to begin filming in a fortnight. 

“Admit it, darling, you love this. Imparting your baking wisdom, sharing your Grand-mere’s recipes, writing books…”

“I _loathe and detest_ the editing bit though,” Greg admitted. “I hate sitting there going over everything I’ve written about sixty times…”

“Perfection has a price.”

“So do assassins…”

Mycroft laughed. “You have another signing tomorrow at Waterstones on Gower Street. 10am. After that, I am going to take you for lunch at Le Gavroche.”

“Couldn’t we just go to the Red Lion for a pint? I really miss going for a pint...”

“I dare say...Why not lunch at Le Gavroche and then we shall find a quiet pub and enjoy a quiet drink?” 

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“God, I love you.” 

Greg grinned and wondered at his life. Of all the things this might have brought, he had never expected to find love. He watched Mycroft move around their kitchen, finding cups for tea. Over the last six months, Greg had been staying at Mycroft’s house for longer and longer periods of time. The latest development was Mycroft accompanying him to signings and interviews. The man was acting more like his manager than his partner. When challenged about it—Greg had asked him if he didn’t have the country to run—Mycroft had answered patiently enough that the country could wait, and this was more important. Besides, his lovely assistant, Anthea, was handling the more pressing matters—apparently the woman was in line to be his successor in the near future—which allowed Mycroft to aid Greg in his fledgling success. Their exchange had been interesting.

“I would rather you had someone who has your best interests at heart than a charlatan, Gregory,” Mycroft had explained. “You are new to all this, which makes you vulnerable…”

“Look, love, it’s sweet you want to protect me…”

“Always, Gregory…”

“Yeah, thanks for that, but...honestly, do you not believe me capable of choosing my own agent?”

“Not entirely. My dear, I have absolute confidence in your ability to present yourself professionally and confidently. Your status as a retired DCI should make anybody think twice about taking you for a ride, but you also need to find someone who is the best fit for your brand…”

“Brand? I have a brand now?”

“Yes, you do. There will be all and sundry wanting you to endorse this and that, wanting your face for their campaign, or on the cover of their book. You need an agent who can represent you correctly, who will take into account your thoughts and feelings before committing you to something you might find goes against your moral and ethical code.”

Greg paused, slightly stunned. “Since you put it like that…”

“The last thing you need is someone railroading you into anything that you disagree with, simply because it will make you money.”

“Very true. What do you suggest?”

“Allow me to vet the possible agents, and give you my opinion, but the final choice will be yours. I shall simply endeavour to make sure that those you want to consider are a good fit.”

Greg had to agree it made sense. Now, as he watched his partner fixing their drinks, he couldn’t think of anywhere he would rather be. They had baked together in this kitchen, creating cakes of every shape and size, practicing bakes for Greg’s coming show, bonding over the bread, canoodling across the carrot cake. It had been… _domestic_ , and very nice. 

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“You think I should move in? With you? Permanently?”

“I...do you want to?”

“Course I bloody do. I miss you when we’re apart, you know?”

“And I you.”

“So why are we waiting?”

“I did not wish to rush you into anything, Gregory.”

“I don’t think nearly seven months is rushing it, Mycroft.”

“In that case… Would you care to move in with me, Gregory?”

“You betcha, Mike. I would love that.”

“That’s settled then. As of now, we are officially cohabiting.”

“Only you could call it that, you know?”

Mycroft met Greg’s smile with one of his own. “Pass me a spoon, please, my dear. You’re leaning in front of the cutlery drawer.”

Greg tugged open the drawer and withdrew the required spoon with a thoughtful smile. “What are you thinking?” Mycroft asked. “Surely my request for a mere teaspoon didn’t give you a philosophical conundrum to puzzle over?”

Greg chuckled. “Nah, never had a spoon do that to me before. No, I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“And what were you wondering?”

“Well, if I move in, it’ll be _my_ kitchen too, won’t it?”

“It will.”

“And it’ll be _my_ home, with you…”

“As I am also living here, that statement is also true.”

“Well, the tv studio wants to call the series Greg’s Home Bakes. You know they _wanted_ to call it _Copper’s Kitchen,_ and I flatly refused. I mean, how corny can you get? Anyway, I was thinking, as it’ll be _my_ home soon...and it is a _spectacular_ kitchen….” Greg paused, reluctant to meet Mycroft’s eyes.

“Go on?” Mycroft prompted, already knowing what Greg was about to ask.

“Well...if you don’t mind...I thought it would be amazing if we could film it here…”

Mycroft leaned on the counter, abandoning his tea making for a moment. He looked at Greg, catalogued his hopeful expression, the man’s smile, his dark eyes, and wondered at his luck. _All mine,_ he thought, happily. _This kind, generous, courageous, gentle, silly man, is all mine_. He sighed. “Oh, very well then,” he agreed, and suddenly found himself engulfed in a hug. “Just make sure they don’t intrude anywhere else in the house and clear up their mess.” 

“You make them sound like pets, Myc.”

“And like pets, film crews need to be house trained,” Mycroft retorted. Under his hands, he felt his lover’s body shake with laughter. He tightened his arms around Greg’s back and returned the hug, shaking his head in fond exasperation. _Maybe sometimes,_ Mycroft thought, _you can have your cake and eat it too._


	5. Mycroft Being Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg in front of the cameras. Greg being a little bit BAMF again. Having been there myself (admittedly not on mainstream TV) I can appreciate that it isn't easy. Hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is a spin-off from a comment by emo_lonrr. I did wonder if I should have addressed how the boys would react to being in front of the cameras more. This just happened. You won't believe how difficult I found this prompt when Johanna originally gave it to me. I wondered how on earth I was going to pull this off, and now this. The boys helped, as they often do, by behaving and doing as I asked them to, often telling me how they should be doing stuff. See what you think.

The filming was... _an experience_. Greg couldn’t find any other words to adequately describe having the cameras on his every move. He had his disasters like everybody else, although he had planned for most eventualities; might not have enough individual cakes? Bake extra; Cake falls out of the oven? Bake two or three or four if you have enough ingredients; Icing melts? Make sure it’s chilled. Of course, it is easy to say all this, and to plan, and to check fourteen times to make sure everything is working, but it’s easier said than done. Cameras are capturing every damn move, every mistake, every swear word, every vulnerable moment, every tear, every laugh, every hug… _Everything_. Sometimes it felt like there was no escape. Sometimes it felt like his heart was on show. _Sometimes_... _well, best not go there._ Certainly after Mycroft had left, Greg had found it a bit hard to get motivated. He’d learned to employ the same tactics he had used in the interview room. _Do not show emotion on your face and above all, do not lose control._ He remembered _bingate_ , from a previous series. He was not going to be that person. 

Looking back on it all, Greg could see that Mycroft had been playing a role. As he grew to know the real man behind the mask more and more (and wasn’t that a good analogy for being in these times?), Greg realised that the man he saw baking in front of the cameras and the presenters was more like the real one than he felt even Mycroft had perhaps realised. 

“Did you realise you were drawing on your own self for that role?” Greg asked one day. They had just finished filming episode three “Grand-mere’s Memory”, for Greg’s new baking show, Greg’s Home Baking, and the film crew had only just cleared out and gone home for the day. Greg was clearing up, and placed a few desultory rejects—still thankfully edible—on a plate for Mycroft to try. He was getting quite a fancy for Greg’s Florentines, even the wonky ones. 

Mycroft looked at him curiously. “What role? You mean Bake-Off? I don’t quite…”

“You were yourself, more times than I think you might have realised. At least, I recognise the man I know now in the one I met back then. You were a bit... _well_ …” Greg licked his lips and worried his bottom lip with his teeth.

Mycroft’s expression turned wry. “You mean I was... _normal_? I acted as I supposed anybody else might when pressured to put on a face before a camera.”

“You were focused. Bloody Hell, it was amazing sometimes. You were very intense when you were baking.”

“I was concentrating on the work. I always do when I bake.”

“Precise, and controlled, until it all went wrong?”

“I dislike being observed at any time…” Mycroft paused, his brows drawing together in a frown. A line appeared on the bridge of his nose as he thought about it. “In truth…” 

**0000000**

_In truth_ , Mycroft thought, gazing around him at the general chaos in the tent, _I am not acting normally_. The other bakers had disasters, and plenty of them. Adele had even brought the oven door off its hinges at one point. She’d had to lean against the door and hold it there as her cake baked, until the baking was done and the Tech Crew could access the tent and repair it. _No wonder,_ Mycroft thought, _she didn’t last beyond the second week._

He’d had one incident that might be considered a disaster so far, and even then it was minor in the grand scheme of things. His technical bake, his choux buns, had not fluffed as they should. They were pathetically flat. He was disappointed, but not overly bothered. After all, he was not expecting to stay. He was under cover, doing a job, a job he expected to be done with in a week or so. _As a result, perhaps I am not reacting as I should to seem convincing_. As he looked about him, he wondered if he was too aloof. _Should I be a bit more...flaky,_ he considered. _Am I coming across as too...rod-up-the-arse? Too cold?_

“Am I too...stiff?” _Mike_ asked Greg one lunchtime.

“Pardon?” Greg’s mind went somewhere it probably shouldn’t on hearing the word _stiff._

“I mean, am I too removed, dispassionate, cold?” Mike asked. _He genuinely seems worried,_ Greg considered, watching as the man munched on a sandwich, looking a bit despondent. 

“I think,” Greg started to say, trying to phrase things carefully, “that you’re amazing to watch.”

“Pardon?” It was Mike’s turn to be surprised. 

“You. You’re amazing to watch. You’re focused, you’re intense, you’re very...precise. It’s actually…” _On no account say it’s a turn on, you berk._ “You’re actually interesting to watch.” Greg sighed internally. It wasn’t the best thing to come out with, but it was a save. 

“I am?”

“Yes, you are. I wouldn’t worry. Takes all sorts, and the camera is currently loving our resident Diva,” he pointed out, as both their gazes travelled to where Richard was sitting with Seb. “I seriously wouldn’t overthink it.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I mean, we’ve enough to cope with without worrying about how we look. I mean, I’m rather... _vocal_ ,” he said, embarrassed. Greg had let slip a few choice swear words when his oven temperature proved to be too low on one memorable occasion when he hadn’t checked it and it was almost cold. _Doubtless there would be a few beeps on that episode._ That had been a bit of a panic, but Greg had luckily found out with enough time to get it up to speed. He had needed to reverse engineer the order in which he was doing some things but he had pulled it off in the end. 

“I should think you were a good policeman,” Mike observed. 

Greg frowned at the apparent non sequitur. “Eh? Where did that come from?”

“Well, you’re well organised, and you are very adaptable. I remember the incident where you were being... _vocal,_ ” he said with a smile. “As I recall you admitted you hadn’t checked the oven temperature.”

“Yeah. Very rookie mistake, that.”

“But you adapted and saved the day in the long run. Your reaction though was tongue-in-cheek, playful. You can take a joke against yourself, Greg, and the audience will love you for it. You reacted to the camera as if it were a person, as if you were including the viewer in the jest. It isn’t easy to _break the fourth wall_ , as it is known, to play to the camera.”

“Is that what I was doing?”

“Well, strictly I suppose it isn’t really breaking the fourth wall because you are not in character, and this is not a play, but you still have an audience that isn’t there. You adapt to that too, to circumstance. I imagine your adaptability and quick reaction time would make you very good at your job.”

“Thank you. I guess I wasn’t such a bad copper. Not much call for baking in the Met though.”

Mycroft smirked. “At least you probably _could_ arrange a dust up in a flour factory.”

“Damn it, Hunter!” Greg spluttered, spraying his tea over his knees. “Thanks for that.” 

“Pleasure. Thank you for your reassurance, Greg.”

Mycroft had to acknowledge that he certainly did not have Greg’s ability to play to the camera. He hated it. He had spent a lifetime avoiding being in the limelight—all apart from that performance as Lady Bracknell, _and look how well that went_ —and he had to hope that every bit of the footage would, as promised, be erased once this sorry business was at an end. That afternoon, he was busy baking biscuits, with several trays in the oven, when suddenly smoke began pouring out of the back of his oven! Shocked, Mycroft froze. Then the smoke alarms went off, by which time, Greg was already moving. 

The smell alerted Greg something was wrong before he spotted the smoke from Mike’s oven. He was dashing for the fire extinguisher before he knew it, realising that the cameras were capturing every moment. “SWITCH IT OFF!” he shouted, pulling the release from the extinguisher handle and aiming it. Someone killed _all_ the electrics, and even the lights died. The only camera still recording was the steadicam with its own battery pack, and the man carrying it stood away from the carnage and continued filming. 

“Everyone out!” someone called, and Greg emptied the extinguisher onto the offending oven, then left with the rest, dumping the now-defunct cylinder onto the grass outside. He well knew how fast a tent could catch fire and shepherded them all as far away as possible, back toward the trees. 

Mycroft chose to use the situation to his advantage, so the cameras could capture how affected he was, allowing his shock and frustration to come to the fore, but ushering his fellow bakers out first. He stood with the rest until the all-clear, when everyone realised that they would have to start again the following day, as soon as the tech crew could get the repairs done and the electrics on again. 

“Might have known it would be _my_ bloody oven!” Mycroft complained, realising that the steadicam operator was _still_ filming.

“Electrical short, not your fault, mate,” one of the tech crew offered in passing.

“Even so, it was my bloody oven!” he repeated. 

“Come on, no more filming today,” Greg said. “They need to get everything sorted. Probably needs an enquiry into why it happened as well. Health and Safety nightmare. Glad you’re okay though.” Greg slung an arm around him. “Drinks are on me, I need a stiff one after that.”

“Include me in that.” Mycroft sighed and fell into step with the man aware that the camera was still following.

**0000000**

“Hm, that _was_ a bit of a disaster,” Greg agreed, munching on the misshaped Florentines in their kitchen, reminiscing with Mycroft over the incident. “You were more _you_ then than at any other time. Your reaction was very... _Mycroft_ ,” he said. 

“Frustrated? Annoyed?”

“Yeah, very _British,”_ Greg qualified.

“Very _British?”_ Mycroft repeated.

“Yup, very.” Greg grinned. “I like the very British you, you’re a very British man.”

“Keep calm and carry on?”

“Keep calm and drink tea,” Greg suggested. 

“I think rather, keep calm and bake cakes. After all, part of me wonders where the Bake Off got all the flour from considering there was none to be had on the shelves during lockdown.”

“Probably where it all went. I mean, we got through a lot of it.”

“I read an interview in the Radio Times that Letty did,” Mycroft said. Letty Kavanagh was one of the producers.

“Yeah? What did she say? I know we had to clean all the damn bags of flour with wipes.”

“Tedious but necessary,” Mycroft admitted. “Apparently, they had to source flour from restaurants and corner shops,” he said. “The cleaners had them under the same UV lights they used on everything else.” 

“Good precautions. At least nobody got sick.”

“So, you think I’m very _British_ , do you?”

“Well, yes, I do. I like it though. You look amazing in your suits.”

“Thank you. Does this opinion stretch to the bedroom?”

Greg grinned. “Fishing for compliments, Holmes? Or reassurance?”

“Well, I wouldn’t like to think I was...too _British_ in bed for you.”

“No sex please, we’re British?” Greg joked. “No love. You are definitely not reserved between the sheets.” He grabbed his lover into his arms and kissed him, leaving him in no doubt about it. “You know how fine you are to me, Mycroft Holmes?” he said when they drew back, his gaze turning softly affectionate.

“No less fine than you are to me, Gregory Lestrade. Come on now, these Florentines won’t eat themselves.” 


End file.
